


Plain sight

by aesc, pearl_o



Category: X-Men: First Class (2011) - Fandom
Genre: Age Difference, Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Alternate Universe - Still Have Powers, Haircuts, Loss of Virginity, M/M, Running Away, Sharing a Bed, Size Difference, Social Anxiety, Wet Dream
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-02-03
Updated: 2015-02-17
Packaged: 2018-03-10 09:10:12
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 5
Words: 37,000
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3284777
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/aesc/pseuds/aesc, https://archiveofourown.org/users/pearl_o/pseuds/pearl_o
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>When he was eleven years old, Charles ran away and disappeared. Eight years later, as a curious detective begins to notice his traces, Charles thinks he's finally ready to join the real world once more.</p><p>But as it turns out, learning to be among people again isn't easy -- and his relationship with Erik is perhaps the most complicated of all.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Prologue: Erik

**Author's Note:**

> This story can be considered an au-of-the-au of the [Tough little baby telepath](http://archiveofourown.org/series/41555) series, but it does stand on its own - no need to have read those stories before trying this one. 
> 
> There are some references to/mentions of abuse in the story, though nothing detailed. 
> 
> New chapters will be added on Tuesdays and Fridays.

Erik is sitting on a bench in the park, slightly underdressed for the March chill, with an untouched bag of McDonald's next to him, doing his best not to feel like an idiot.

Erik suspects he has spent more time in the park in the last three weeks – rain, snow, wind or shine – than in the entire twenty years previous. He doesn't have anything _against_ greenery, or nature, particularly; it just doesn't particularly interest him, either. Moira, who likes to go out to out to the country and camp and hike on her vacations (that is, voluntarily sleep uncomfortably on rocks on the ground, and walk around for no reason), has joked to him that it's because there's just not enough metal concentrated in one place to entertain him. Who knows? It might have an element of truth to it.

And yet, pretty much any spare moment he's had in these last few weeks that's not been spent working or sleeping, he's been here, for no real reason stronger than he's got an idea in his head and he doesn't want to let it go.

There have been rumors of the lost Xavier kid floating around every since he disappeared, of course. It's been eight years, and the boy was a telepath. Just because he was last seen in New York is no reason to think he's here now, let alone in the park, of all places. Erik has no proof, no justification for his certainty that the boy is around here. Nothing but a vague itch in the back of his head, and the sense that he's missing something. That, and his stubborn refusal to back down.

He looks down at his watch – 3:53. He blinks, and then goes very still, frowning down at his wrist. The numbers says 3:56 now. In just a split-second, three minutes have passed.

The fast food bag is gone from beside him, too.

* * *

Central Park on Sunday mornings is always precariously quiet, the city recovering from the week, some of it shuffling to church, in the few hours before the day truly begins and the city rouses itself again. Erik has a couple of bagels and the Sunday _Times_ and his usual bench. Every few minutes a jogger huffs or sprints by, sometimes a lady pulled by an over-exuberant dog, but Erik and the pigeons greedily eyeing his breakfast are the only regular tenants.

Although he tries to keep his mind open, unconcerned, just beneath his distraction with the paper he turns over why he's here. The only time anyone in Missing Persons bothers with the Xavier case is around the anniversary every year, when they trot their PR person out to say the case is still open and to remind people about ways to report missing or endangered kids. No one else touches it; it's tainted with sensationalism and conspiracy, JonBenet Ramsey, but with mutants.

Metal drifts by him, carried in wallets and on clothing, propelled on wheels, nailed to the feet of the carriage horses. He idly flips through it all, looking for quarters or metal trinkets moving of their own accord. He's heard that some stores a few blocks east of the park have had things stolen, wool sweaters and socks and a fleece hat. It's cold out, the winter holding on; Erik can't blame whoever did it.

While he pretends to be absorbed in mocking the Lifestyle section, he senses a prickly, curious presence, eyes reading along over his shoulder. The pressure is a real thing, fingers brushing the hair on the back of his neck so it stands on end.

Erik makes himself stay very still until the sensation retreats, a poltergeist drawing back.

When he leaves to stretch cold-stiffened limbs, he leaves behind the _Times_ and the extra bagels, one tub of plain cream cheese, one with honey.

Erik has looked it up a few times, these past few weeks. It's always the same two pictures of the kid, both from within a year of his disappearance: one of him at his father's grave, and another from his mother's engagement party, standing with her and her fiance and his son. Both pictures show a solemn-faced child with large, uncanny eyes. It's tempting to look at those eyes and think he looks older than his age, but Erik knows all too well that's the danger of hindsight. He sees the same thing when he looks at pictures of himself, before Shaw came into his life.

Even before this new focus (Moira would say "obsession"), Erik always had a vague interest in this case, in an angry sort of way. The parents had waited five days before letting the police know the boy was a mutant, afraid that the news would leak to the press, which of course it did. There's no way to ever know now if having all the information on exactly what they were dealing with would have made a difference in those crucial first few days. Erik expects not, based on how long the kid has managed on his own; thinking of how powerful his abilities must be to achieve everything he has leaves Erik briefly stunned.

Tuesday morning, before work, he does the crossword on what he's come to think of as _his_ bench. The air is chilly but no longer cold, the sky is overcast, but still bright. Erik can sense beside him the metal of a sweatshirt zipper, the zipper and buttons of a pair of jeans, a pair of steel-toe boots. He is fairly certain if he were to look towards them, he wouldn't see a thing, and so he doesn't look.

15 across is a clue about one of Marlowe's plays, which Erik has certainly never read, but the answer springs into his mind, unbidden, nonetheless.

He sets down the folded paper, letting it rest against his thigh, and lets his gaze drift to the opposite direction. Across the way, there's a woman feeding a spoonful of fruit mush to a baby in a stroller. A few joggers braving the cold lope by, and in the street beyond the trees the city buzzes on its way to work.

"My name's Erik," Erik says out loud, very quietly. "You're Charles, aren't you?"

There's no response, but it doesn't feel like he's talking into the void; it feels like he's talking to someone who's listening silently but very, very carefully.

"I don't want to harm you, or take you back," Erik continues. "But if you're ready to stop living like this, I can help you. Or if you just want to talk, or if there's anything else you need."

Silence answers him, of course, the wariness of an uncertain mind at the cusp of a decision, a hand reaching into a trap that might spring shut. "I've never read _Tamburlaine_ ," Erik says, which wins him a flicker of amusement and the wordless suggestion that he should. 

Also, he learns that 22 down is _acanthus_. "Corinthian flower," Erik says as he clumsily writes the word in, and gets a snapshot of a temple pillar in the Metropolitan, superimposed for a moment over the trees and rolling paths of the park.

"You can look," Erik says, gesturing to his temple, though he's fairly certain that Charles is looking, has been looking. He can't feel a thing, unlike with Emma, who enjoys people knowing she's in their heads. "I promise, Charles. We do this on your terms or not at all. When you're ready."

Erik keeps his hand loose on the folded-up paper, his pen resting in the cradle between thumb and index finger. The metal next to him shifts uneasily and the old wood of the bench creaks, as if Charles is shifting his weight from one hip to the other. Metal is how Erik first discovered him, or discovered a phantom who lives in Central Park, when he'd been eating a food truck taco and nearly choked at feeling metal brush by him with no body accompanying it.

He'd lost five minutes that day, and he remembers the panic viscerally, at first not his own then definitely his own when he'd found himself teetering at the edge of traffic on Columbus Circle, an empty taco wrapper clenched in his fist. Now, he's reasonably certain he's himself, with Charles invisible but still felt by his side.

"I'll be back tomorrow," Erik says. "My captain's not sure why I keep heading out here; I think she thinks I've finally snapped, or something's wrong." Idly, he levitates a stray quarter up off the pavement, weaves it in a slalom through his fingers before he sets it down on the folded paper. "See you, Charles."

The metal stays where it is as he brushes by it, and for a moment Erik has the sensation of fingers just about touch, but the moment passes and Erik leaves the park.

* * *

"Are you going to tell me what's going on, already, Lehnsherr," Moira says to him later that afternoon, "or are you really just going to make me guess?" She's leaning against his desk, arms crossed, one eyebrow raised in a skeptical expression that Erik knows her well enough to be aware is covering up genuine concern.

He is surprised by his own temptation to fill her in, but... no. "Not yet," Erik says, shaking his head. When she looks ready to argue, he adds, voice low, "It isn't mine to tell, Moira. Not yet."

She gives him a thoughtful, considering look, but she doesn't push it.

* * *

The next time Erik goes to the park, it's late afternoon, getting close to sunset. It's later than he generally comes, but work kept him later than usual tonight. It'll be dark soon, Erik thinks, and the thought leads to another, worrying about the kid, out here alone in the night – but immediately it strikes Erik what a ridiculous notion that is, when he's taken care of himself so long, and when he has so many of his own powerful defenses.

Erik can sense the metal of the clothing long before he reaches the bench, though he still can't see anything there. The kid's waiting for him, then. Erik hopes he hasn't been waiting all day; Erik hadn't given him a time, just a promise that it would be today.

He almost _hadn't_ come, exhausted as he is from his latest case. He's glad he did.

"Hello, Charles," Erik says as he sits down on the bench. He rubs absently at his eyes.

_Hi_ , a voice says inside his head, soft and uncertain.

The syllable alone has a hint of accent to it, the vowel dragged out a little; it's not a New York accent, not one that Erik's ever heard. He carefully pushes back his surprise; Charles has only ever given him images or impressions, or when they've worked on a crossword or sudoku, the answer materializes in Erik's head as if he's always known it and is only now recalling it. A sense of challenge hangs in the air, Charles waiting to see what Erik will do about the voice in his head.

"Nice night," Erik says. It's warm by April standards, although the temperature has begun to drop with the sun disappearing behind the skyscrapers. "I brought you something."

The something is a copy of Marlowe's collected plays. He leaves it on the bench beside him. Charles doesn't move to take it, but he does ask _What's that?_ , the 'that' accompanied by a mental image of the opaque white bag Erik's still holding.

"Tacos," Erik says, with a significant look. Charles's embarrassment washes over him – not, Erik realizes with a laugh, at nearly manipulating Erik into traffic, but at having reacted instinctively when he could have controlled himself, been more nuanced and not panicked. Erik doesn't acknowledge it, only takes one taco from the bag and leaves the other.

_You had a long day today_ , Charles ventures while Erik's chewing and trying not to devour the first food he's had since the banana he'd eaten on the subway this morning. _Shouldn't you be going home? You usually try to get home before six so you can yell at the news._

Erik can't help the laughter, although it's uncanny thinking Charles knows him so well – far better than Erik knows him. All he knows is the nonsense in the many folders the NYPD has devoted to Charles’s disappearance, that Charles knows Marlowe, that he's been on his own for years, that he still wears metal he lets Erik sense and hasn't mind-controlled Erik in front of a tourist bus for haunting a corner of the park Charles must think of as his.

"You thought any more about it?" Erik asks.

_You can have the other taco_ , Charles tells him. _I'm okay_.

When Erik looks at his watch again, it's six minutes later than he can remember it being, he's colder, and the book of plays is gone. The taco is still there, probably colder than Erik, and there's something like a note, a final emphatic word, ringing in his ears.

_Come tomorrow morning._

And, of course, Erik does.

He suspects, as he walks through the park the next morning, that it's earlier than Charles intended. But Erik woke up ludicrously early this morning, for reasons he can only (annoyingly) put down as nerves, and if he spent any more time puttering around his apartment he thinks he might have gone insane. It doesn't matter; he can wait. He's taught himself patience at enough stakeouts over the years; he can pace his breathing to the quiet morning and wait.

He doesn't have to wait, though. Despite trying to keep himself from searching for signs of Charles’s presence, he feels the familiar metal on the bench as he approaches. What's more, once he's turned the last corner, past the last stand of trees, he sees someone sitting on the bench as well.

Erik stops dead in his tracks at the sight.

The boy is sitting on the back of the bench, his feet on the seat, leaning forward in on himself. Erik forces himself to start walking again, his same normal stride, as if there's nothing unusual happening whatsoever, until he reaches the bench and sits down.

"Good morning, Charles," Erik says.

He doesn't stare at the boy, but he doesn't avoid looking at him, either. If it weren't for the feel of the metal, Erik doesn't think he would have recognized him at all, childhood pictures be damned. He certainly doesn't look like he's spent eight years alone, hiding out in the woods (park, whatever). He looks like he could be any random undergraduate wandering the city – if anything, he's neater and cleaner than most of the ones Erik sees on the sidewalks or the subway, for all that he could use a haircut.

A backpack slouches on the bench between them, a heavy, sturdy leather thing. Erik estimates it's packed less than half-full.

_I have some conditions_ , Charles says. There's something about the way he says it (thinks it? Erik supposes he doesn't know the right terminology for this sort of mind-to-mind communication; the only telepath he's really interacted with in the past has been Emma, and her only rarely) that makes Erik suspect he has been practicing a speech since Erik last saw him. 

"Whatever you want," Erik says. "I told you yesterday, this is on your terms."

He doesn't like conceding this much power in any negotiation – or conceding any power under any circumstances; Moira says there's a very good reason they keep him out of the way when the attorneys are fighting out a plea deal – but here, he doesn't have any power to give. Charles knows it, and Erik figures that's what allows him to sit next to Erik, what's allowed the past few weeks to happen.

_I'm not going to go to the station with you_ , Charles begins. _I'm not going to talk to any other officers, or – or counselors, or anyone. At least, not now._ Erik does feel Charles sifting through his thoughts now, rifling through his intentions. _You might not want to arrest me now, but you might later. And you might –_ The possibility pops into Erik's head: Charles's face splashed across the papers again, his life dragged out into the open.

"The last time a reporter got in my face, I broke his Dictaphone," Erik says. It wins him a quick, unwilling grin, and some surprise from a man and woman strolling by. Erik scowls at them so they pick up their pace and hurry away. "I'm the only person who can see you?"

_For now_. Charles watches the man and woman go, something complex written across his face. Erik takes quick stock of him again, tousled brown hair that's been finger-combed and startling blue eyes. _I don't – I don't want people seeing me._

"Okay," Erik says. He's used to odd looks and outright fear, and people tend to rethink staring rudely pretty quickly when they realize he's caught on. "You want something to eat? It's early, and I haven't had breakfast."

_Okay_ , Charles says. He slides off the bench and grabs his backpack, glaring at Erik defiantly, as if half-expecting Erik to try and steal it.

Erik lets it go. He's sorting through the files in his brain, trying to decide the best choices for breakfast within walking distance – he’d be pushing it, he thinks to ask Charles to follow him into his car or underground. Open spaces; nowhere he could feel trapped.

"How do you feel about diner food?"

It earns him a shrug. _I'm not picky_ , Charles informs him.

Well, fair enough. "Come on, then," Erik says, gesturing with one shoulder before he turns and begins to walk. There's a long moment where he thinks Charles has changed his mind, but then the metal behind him moves in a sudden scurry as Charles jogs to catch up, settling in to trail behind him.

They walk without talking, and Erik doesn't look back at him, relying only on his ability to let him know Charles hasn't disappeared. Orpheus and Eurydice, Erik thinks idly; that was a crossword clue he had gotten without assistance. There's a brief flash of amusement, not his own, at the thought. It's an odd feeling, but a pleasant one.

Erik snags them a booth at the diner. He's surprised when the waitress brings them two menus. Charles avoids his eyes, gazing down at the plastic-covered front like it holds the secrets of the universe. There's a faint blush on his cheeks and a determined expression.

"Coffee," Erik says to the waitress's question, and Charles says _The same for me, please._ The waitress doesn't show any sign of noticing his lips don't move as he does it, only nods and leaves them to peruse their menus.

It only takes Erik a minute to make his own decision, the decidedly non-kosher bacon, fried eggs, and rye toast. He shuts the menu again, leaning back in his seat. Charles is frowning over his with a vaguely torn air.

"I’d hoped I didn’t have to say it, but get whatever you want," Erik says.

Charles meets his eye, shaking his head wryly. _Pride is a bugger, isn't it? I really am quite hungry, though._

Erik isn't sure how to respond to that. In the opposite situation, he probably wouldn't let anyone buy him anything. He's that stubborn, and that much of an asshole.

Charles seems to come to a decision, though, and when the waitress returns, he orders a stack of blueberry pancakes, a side of sausage, fruit salad, and a cherry danish.

The waitress leaves again with their orders, and Charles begins to devote himself to adding what strikes Erik as a truly sickening amount of sugar and creamer to his cup of coffee. He can't help but clutch his own mug more tightly between his fingers, taking careful sips, as if his body is somehow afraid Charles will manage to ruin his cup as well.

There's an almost cheerful expression to Charles's face. _You haven't asked me why yet_ , he says, stirring in a final spoonful of sugar.

"I don't plan on asking you anything," Erik says. "If you want to tell me, I'm here to listen."

Charles nods thoughtfully. His bright eyes are fixed on Erik's so intently as to be almost uncomfortable, but Erik isn't going to be the one to look away.

"As for why," Erik continues, in a lower, softer voice. "I would think that's obvious, isn't it? Everyone who runs away does it for the same reason. Because it's unbearable to stay."

Charles looks away at that, fingers tightening around his coffee cup. The presence in Erik's head flickers out of existence for a moment and he more than half expects Charles to disappear entirely. But he doesn't, though his mouth has compressed in a thin, tense line, as if that brief flash of happiness had never been.

The waitress returns with the cherry danish on a plate and a carafe of coffee, with orders for Erik to tell her if he needs more. "I'll have your food out in just a bit," she tells him, ignoring Charles's presence utterly.

_I'm not going to talk about that_ , Charles tells him. Despite the hunger that Charles had mentioned earlier, he still eats his pastry with fork and knife, an unconscious politeness in the way he holds the utensils. _I've never managed to break some habits_ , he says, because of course he caught Erik thinking it. _I think I was born knowing the difference between the oyster and salad fork. I might have been; according to my father's records, I had manifested at birth._

Erik sips his coffee, instead of saying what he wants to say. He hates talking anyway, unless it's interrogation, and Charles is still unsettled, ready to spook at any suggestion Erik's going to go back on his promise. By the time Charles finishes his pastry and violates another cup of coffee with cream and sugar, the waitress appears, balancing heavily laden plates, and Charles stares at them as if the pastry hadn't even existed.

_You're Jewish_ , Charles says as the waitress slides the plate of bacon in front of him.

"Not strictly observant," Erik says as he cuts into an egg and spreads the soft white and yolk on a piece of toast. "I haven't been for a long time."

_Not since your mother_. Charles's mental voice is tinged with longing and jealousy, enough that it distracts from the pain that wells up like blood through a wound whenever Erik thinks of her. He tells himself that, if he'd had Charles's mother, he'd have been jealous too; the photos he's seen of her in the _Times_ and the interviews he'd read have been enough to tell him he never wants to meet her. Charles is still looking at him, faintly perplexed and holding a forkful of pancakes and syrup. _But you don't cook pork or shellfish in your kitchen, because it would make her happy to know you didn't._

There's a sudden flash of memories in Erik's mind, images of his mother's kitchen, doing homework or telling her about his day or practicing his powers chopping vegetables at the table, while she bustled around him, cooking. Safe, loved, loving, and always there.

"Yes," Erik says, because he can't think of anything else to say, and he takes another bite, so he doesn't have to.

Charles still looks faintly puzzled. Maybe because Erik doesn't fully understand it, either, and so Charles can't just take an explanation from his mind.

_She wasn't a mutant_ Charles says, after a minute of silence, during which Charles's food disappears at a rapid rate. Erik is a little impressed by how quickly he can put it away, considering how perfect his manners remain. He doesn't have to stop even to speak now, of course: another advantage of telepathy. _But she didn't hate your mutation. She encouraged you._

It's a statement, not a question, but there's something uncertain about his tone. He's frowning down at his sausage, not at Erik.

"She did," Erik says slowly. "She was proud of me." Another memory: nine or ten, perhaps, the first time he had enough control to make coins dance in the air for her. She had clapped her hands and, when he’d finally dropped them, hugged him tight and taken him for ice cream. _That's wonderful, Erik!_

He should have been satisfied with that, he thinks now, the same thought he's gone over a million times. He shouldn't have needed whatever he thought Shaw was offering; she should have been enough.

_I'm sorry_ , Charles says, and Erik realizes belatedly he's been staring into his coffee cup. He gives Charles a brief smile; it probably looks fake, but there's nothing he can do about that.

"It was a long time ago," he says.

He's lost his appetite for his last few bites of his breakfast, so he pushes the plate away. Charles, surrounded by his own empty dishes, eyes it.

_Go ahead,_ Erik thinks. _It'll only go to waste otherwise._

Charles shoots him a look Erik can't quite interpret, but takes the plate anyway.

"So," Erik says, sitting back in the booth and folding his arms while Charles wolfs down the remaining eggs, "what next?"

It's a risk, he knows, but he doesn't think Charles will bolt, not now. Not yet.

Charles scrapes up the last of the eggs and finishes his coffee. _My telepathy has pretty high energy demands_ , he says when Erik can only marvel at how much food Charles has put away. _And that brings me to, well, a – a request._

"Okay," Erik says. "Whatever."

_I'll go with you to the station_ , Charles tells him. Erik sits up a little; that's not what he'd been expecting Charles to say. Charles's grip tightens on his empty cup and he fixes Erik with those bright blue eyes, intense and compelling all of Erik's attention. _I'll go, but I only want to talk to you and your captain – Moira. No one else._

"Moira's good." Practical, efficient, and absolutely to be trusted; Erik can't imagine serving under anyone else. "I'm pretty sure she'll keep the same conditions I've promised to. She won't make you do anything you don't want to."

_No one can_ , Charles says with chilling finality. What must have happened to anyone who had tried to make him do something against his will, Erik can only imagine. _But I can't... I don't want to go back_ , Charles continues, and Erik has the jumbled impression of the park, the tiny nook hidden under old oaks and bushes that must have been where Charles lived. _And maybe, eventually, I can find a way to live in a different way than this._

"We'll do that." It occurs to him that he's agreed more with Charles than anyone he's talked to in the past month. Charles's mouth twitches, hearing that. "Don't get used to it," Erik says dryly, "I'm usually not this nice. Or nice in any capacity."

_You're nicer than you know_. Charles pours the last of his coffee into his cup and goes through the same appalling ritual with the cream and sugar. _And just to reiterate... no counselors, no social workers. No press. I don't want anyone knowing who I am. But to do that... there are laws against using telepathy without prior authorization in police stations and courts._

"Ignore them," Erik says. He sips the last of his own coffee. "Or consider my giving you permission authorization. We've got a telepathic consultant –"

_I can manage her_.

Erik rather likes the thought of Emma being beaten at her own game, and is almost looking forward to it. "We can go when you're ready."

Charles nods before swallowing down a large portion of his coffee. _I just need to use the restroom_ , he says, gesturing with his chin toward the corner. He reaches his hand out to grab his backpack beside him, but stops halfway. His eyes flicker over to meet Erik's and then away again the next instant.

He leaves the backpack behind when he gets up, though.

Erik feels a little as if he's turned some kind of corner, passed some kind of test he hadn’t known he was taking until he was in the middle of it.

He pays the check while Charles is gone. "You ready?" he says, standing up himself as Charles approaches again.

_Yes_ , Charles says. He grabs his backpack, hoisting it over his shoulder, and this time he leads the way as they begin to walk out of the restaurant.

Erik waits until they're outside again to speak. He's still not sure at any given moment whether Charles is visible to anyone but him, and he'd rather not attract any more attention than he strictly has to.

"You're okay with taking my car?" Erik says. Charles doesn't walk slowly, but he doesn't walk as fast as Erik does naturally, either; Erik has to keep forcing himself to slow down to keep pace with him. No one else on the sidewalk bothers them or gets in their way. It's amazing to watch, really, the crowds of milling people just parting before Charles like Moses and the Red Sea and pushing back together behind him, not one of them aware that they're not doing it of their own accord.

_Yes_ , Charles says again. His head is down, not looking at Erik.

Erik hesitates only a moment before continuing. "If you don't feel safe in a closed space with me, that's fine, but I need to know. It's not going to be safe if you freeze me or control me when we're in there." With all the other things he's seen Charles do, he wouldn't be surprised if Charles could control his powers through him, but there might still be a learning curve. More to the point, he doubts Charles managed to sneak his way into a set of driver's lessons any time in the past eight years.

_It's fine_ , Charles says, his tone going suddenly fierce. He raises his head and gives Erik a look that's practically a glare. _I trust you_.

That silences Erik for the rest of the walk to the car.

"This one's mine," Erik says as they reach his, although he immediately feels dumb. Of course Charles knows, already. Charles doesn't say anything, merely goes to stand by the passenger side door and wait for it to be unlocked.

"I'm going to give my captain a call and let her know we're coming," Erik says. He can feel the slightest hint of a question in his tone; noticing it gives him pause. He's starting to lose track of all the exceptions he's making for Charles, all the ways he's bending for him. He doesn't regret any of them, either, but he can't say why. All he knows is that this – _Charles_ – is important.

All Charles says is _Okay_. He's still waiting, and Erik bites back a sigh and uses his power to undo the locks with a loud click, so Charles can climb inside.

He leans back against the side of the car as he dials. Moira answers on the third ring.

"What is it, Lehnsherr?" Moira sounds distracted and – already, before he's said a single word – a little bored with him. She's probably at her desk, a million other things going on.

"You remember that thing I couldn't tell you about?" Erik says.

He's known her long enough that he can visualize perfectly the way she's perking up, the way her focus goes sudden and laser sharp on him. "Your other party has given you permission to share?"

"My other party and I are on our way to the station," Erik tells her.

"Okay," Moira says. "You need anything?"

"Just, make sure there's an office free. Not an interview room," Erik scans quickly through his memory for a vacant space, any place that isn't a room they use for interrogation. "And keep people out of the way. I don't want them having more grist for the mill."

"You can have my office." Through the uncertain reception of the cell phone, her papers rustle. "Does your other party want anyone else present?"

Erik hesitates. Into the hesitation, Charles says, _She can stay. But no one else._ He slants a suspicious look at Erik. _You didn't tell her who I am._

_She'll figure it out soon enough._ Moira’s probably figured it out already. "We'll be there in fifteen, maybe twenty. Make sure you don't have people hanging around your office. Or anywhere else."

"I think I can dredge up some work for them to do," Moira says dryly. "See you in a bit."

The line goes dead, and the silence after that has a tension absent before. "You don't have to do this," Erik says, hoping that he's defusing whatever bomb's about to explode and not hurrying it along to detonation. "Any time you change your mind, this is over."

_You're starting to lose patience with me_ , Charles sends. He scrutinizes Erik's face, as if whatever's written in his brain isn't transparent enough. _You would have decided once and for all by now. Once you've committed to something, you never think twice about it, or second-guess yourself._ The quality to Charles's projection says this isn't a bad thing; it comes with hints of memories, of watching from a safe distance as the tall man with a mind like steel girders forged together came, time and again, sometimes early in the morning, sometimes late in the afternoon, after the streetlights had come on, always with the same determination.

_You're trying to tell yourself not to think I should be more like you_. A moment later, the sense of Charles riffling through his head drifts away. The tension in Erik's shoulders loosens, without his willing it.

On the other end of the silent ride to the station, Erik parks in the garage and considers the least-chaotic way to his department. Charles has gone tense, but has a set to his jaw that bespeaks his own determination. As before on the street, no one sees him. Erik nods at some traffic officers, a couple of detectives, pretending not to notice Charles ghosting along behind him, and pretending not to notice how all of the officers step out of the way and don't glance twice at Erik.

It's strange – not Charles's ability; he finds he's growing accustomed to that in a way he never could have imagined just a few weeks ago, but rather the feeling that stepping into Moira's office is crossing a line, that there's no stepping back after this. Strange, because it's obviously not true, not when Charles could erase Erik's memory of this moment, of everything to do with him, as easily Erik could flip a coin in mid-air.

He doesn't ask Charles again if he's sure. But he does feel like he has to say _something_ , so he pauses, just outside Moira's door.

Looking down at Charles's frowning face, Erik says, "Moira – she’s good people. Not a mutant," he has to point out, "but good people. You can trust her. No matter what happens, or what you're worried about. She's more trustworthy than me, anyway," he adds, almost as an afterthought.

The corners of Charles's mouth turn up in a brief flash of amusement and acknowledgment, before his serious mask settles again. He takes in a deep breath, squaring his shoulders, and nods at Erik. _I'm ready._

Erik opens the door and leads him inside.

Moira’s sitting at her desk, coffee cup in one hand as she scans something on her computer. She turns in her seat as Erik enters, her gaze passing over Erik quickly to settle on the obviously-visible Charles, silently looking him over and sizing him up. Erik wonders vaguely if he could or should have let her know in advance that she would be dealing with a telepath. Too late now, at any rate.

"Moira," Erik says. Charles is standing closer to him than he needs to, close enough Erik can almost feel the heat of his skin. "This is Charles Xavier."

_He's not bullshitting you_ , Charles adds, before Moira can say a word out loud. _I am. I've come to... to turn myself in, I suppose. I don't think that's the right word for it, but I'm not sure I know a better one._

"Well," Moira says, her face and voice admirably calm, "we won't take you into custody, if that's what you're worried about, and you're certainly not giving yourself up for arrest. And we won't contact anyone without your permission – that is, if you're over eighteen?"

_I am_ , Charles says, sounding vaguely affronted. He slides into one of the chairs, the one closest to the door, perching on the edge of it. _And yes, don't call my mother and stepfather._

"Neither of us will." Moira's expression and tone say that's a promise she'll keep; knowing that is what let Erik tell her even the tiniest bit of what he's spent the better part of his free time doing over the past month or so. It might be what tipped the balance for Charles, understanding he might trust both of them beyond knowing he could simply erase their memories and escape. "But, that leaves open why you _did_ come here, since clearly Lehnsherr didn't browbeat you into it."

"Thank you," Erik grumbles as Charles's amusement fills his head. Charles even smiles, a flex of his mouth that seems more hesitant than it should be, as if Charles isn't used to wearing such an expression.

_I suppose I've come here to see..._ Charles pauses. The uncertainty comes back, and anticipation tingles between Erik's shoulder blades, the possibility of Charles lashing out. Charles masters himself and continues, _I want – I'm tired of living the way I've been living. I'll tell you about it, if you want, but just you. No counselors. Or lawyers._

"Of course," Moira says. She leans back a little, turning sideways in her chair as she tucks her legs up. "But neither of us can give you much help if you need to process some aspects of your experience. We're not counselors, or social workers, and Lehnsherr is crap at psychology."

_You're better at it than you think_ , Charles sends, his silent voice shaded to suggest a whisper, words passing only between the two of them. He adds, more clearly, turning to Moira again, _Maybe a social worker. Eventually. I don't know. But I want to start becoming part of society again. Do you know what it's like, being invisible while you see everything?_

"No," Moira says softly. "I can't say I do. And no one else does, I imagine."

_Yes. I want to – I want to be seen again. But I don't want to be that poor lost boy, either._ Charles frowns, shaking his head as if he can shake his thoughts into place, so they fit neatly where uncertainty has disarranged them. _I want to have a place, a reason. Telepaths can't exist without people to talk to._

"And you want someone to talk to," Erik says. He can't really conceptualize it, but it must be like hearing conversations while not being able to join in, wandering unheard and unseen through a thicket of voices. The worst kind of loneliness, when you're surrounded by people.

_Yes_ , Charles says. _Maybe – I'll tell you a bit about myself, and then... well, then._

"And then we'll see what happens," Moira says, so business-like and practical and quietly assuring that Erik could kiss her.

Charles relaxes into the chair, just a smidgen, and he begins to talk.


	2. Charles

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Ugh, you guys have been so great and encouraging about the first chapter. We hope you enjoy the rest of the story as much!

The realization that Erik is almost home (already in the building, and on his way up the stairs he insists on taking instead of the elevators on the days he doesn't run in the mornings) hits Charles with an actual, physical start. 

It's never happened before. Erik's mind is more familiar to him by now than anything or anyone else there is, and Charles can track him halfway across the city – farther, almost certainly, though larger distances haven't come up yet. Most afternoons Charles sends his awareness out to find Erik some time before he gets off work, so he can silently and unobtrusively follow Erik on his way home. Charles isn't entirely sure why he does it, except that somehow he finds it comforting.

Today, though, time has gotten away from him. Of all the things he appreciates about Erik's apartment – and it has many, many perks compared to his years _out there_ , as he can't help but think of it – the internet connection might be Charles's favorite. He appreciates the cable, too, and the Netflix accounts, and all of Erik's books. There's so much information to absorb. Taking it in has more or less been Charles's full-time job for weeks now, and he doesn't know if he'll ever get enough.

At least, Charles tells himself, he wasn't so distracted as to not notice Erik's approach at all. He rather suspects that if the door had opened unexpectedly, he would have relied on instinct, and frozen Erik. And that's – that's not acceptable, not at all. He and Erik made a deal, when Charles came to stay here. It's pretty much the only thing Erik has asked of him, in all this time.

As it is, he just doesn't have time to do much of anything before Erik reaches the apartment. He had intended to turn down the heat again, from where he had cranked up this morning after Erik left, and to change his clothes. He's been sitting on carpet between the couch and the coffee table in his boxers and undershirt ever since he got back from his lunchtime trek to the lobby to fetch Erik's mail.

All he does have time to do is notice that something is different, that the careful clockwork whirring of Erik's thoughts is out of joint, tinted with the anger that Erik usually keeps firmly in the background, before the locks unclick and the door is opening.

He forces himself not to reach out to Erik and flip the switch in his brain that lets him see Charles to the off position. One of the things he's been learning is how his telepathy works; he knows now that he can slide into Erik's visual cortex and shut down the bit that recognizes Charles and tells him _Charles is here_. All that keeps him from it, other than the trust that's crept in around the edges, is feeling out the texture of Erik's anger, knowing that it isn't directed at him.

Erik himself appears a moment later, after the angry clatter of keys on the table by the door and the door itself slamming shut. Charles has gotten up from the couch and turned to face Erik, hating having his back to that roiling storm. He skims hesitant mental fingers across Erik's anger and flinches back as if he's been burned, before he has a real sense of what Erik's anger's _for_. He catches hints that it's _about_ Charles, not directed at him, but the constellation of circumstances that surround him.

"Hey," Erik says. He drops his bag on the table, which he never does. Bags always go on the floor, or the counter, out of the way.

 _What is it?_ Charles asks. "Just – I haven't looked." However hard it is, he's trying to learn to keep his telepathy to himself; he hates how terrified and small his voice is. It still doesn't sound right, all the sounds subtly wrong, a shade off of normal. "Just tell me."

"Someone found out about you," Erik says bitterly. He pulls a folded paper from his bag, crumpled like Erik's had to fight not to tear it apart; it’s a tabloid, one of the dozens Charles ignores when he steps outside. When Erik unfolds it, Charles sees his face – his much younger face, the same last-known photo he's seen circulated on every paper, reputable and otherwise, since he ran away. In recent years, as interest in his case has dwindled to the "anniversary" of his disappearance, he's nearly managed to forget they exist. That _he_ ever existed, as that little boy staring wide-eyed at the camera.

That photo still shocks him. His heart freezes, his breath stopping up in his chest. Erik's saying something, his mind a clamor of anger and alarm, _Charles, Charles, what the fuck, where did you –_

"Hey," Erik says out loud. "Charles, calm _down_ , you're _projecting_..."

 _Sorry_. Charles forces his telepathy to fold in on itself, although he badly wants to send it _out_ , to find who knows, who needs to be made to forget. _Sorry, sorry SORRY_. Underneath the apology and fear, the question runs: _how. HOW?_

"According to the article? A 'confidential' source." Erik jams the paper back into his bag. "There aren't a whole fuck of a lot of those who could legitimately know. I'll find out.

An undercurrent there, barely acknowledged to Erik himself: _and make them pay_. The part of Charles that finds that comforting is at war with the part that wants to push back against it, to scream at Erik that he can take care of himself, he's done it for eight years, he doesn't need Erik to fight his battles for him – 

Except that's a lie, isn't it? He spent this entire afternoon proud of himself for saying hello to one of Erik's neighbors at the mailboxes, and agreeing politely with the observation that it was rainy outside. All the weapons Charles has are disproportionate to all of this, nuclear warheads at a gun fight, and without them he doesn't even have a knife.

 _Can I see it?_ Forget about speaking aloud, for the rest of the night.

Erik looks grim. "I can't stop you," he says, though Charles thinks he means something more like he wouldn't try to, even if it were possible. "But I wish you wouldn't. You're not going to gain anything from it. It's not even journalism, it's just trash. It has nothing to do with you except your name and the picture."

Charles realizes his arms are crossed against his chest, hugging himself tightly. His legs are a little shaky, too. Erik is still watching him critically as he sets himself down, sitting on the edge of the couch's arm.

 _My stepfather_ , Charles says after a minute. His heartbeat has settled back to something closer to its normal pace. He still feels hot and anxious, like he wants to burrow himself away from everything, but his head has cleared a little from that cloud of panic. _Or my stepbrother. Or one of their people. I'm sure it was one of them who leaked it, not someone with the force, or with my lawyers._

"Why do you think that?" Erik says. Charles must look a little better, too, because Erik turns away from his careful watch over him, stepping into the kitchen as he speaks. Erik cooks them dinner every night, the best food that Charles can remember eating. Most nights Charles sits on the counter or at the breakfast bar, tucked out of the way, watching in fascination as the kitchen arranges itself around Erik, so many metal pieces working in harmony. Usually it relaxes Erik, relieves the stress he brings home with him. It feels wrong to watch Erik go through those same motions now, still strumming with this anger.

 _Because_ , Charles replies, but he doesn't know how to finish his answer. Because they would know it would hurt him. Because they like to hurt him.

"We'd still have to figure out how they knew," Erik says. The refrigerator door swings open and Erik begins to go through it. "If they got access to records, if someone on the force who _didn't_ know the records were sealed – if they did know but didn't care – I need to figure out how." He dumps a package of lamb and some leftover rice pilaf on the counter, his power deftly plucking a heavy knife from its block as he gathers onions and peppers from their basket.

 _I'm going to look_ , Charles tells him. He sidles into the kitchen, lifting himself up onto the counter in the hope that something familiar might ease him, or ease them both. Reaching out to Erik to soothe the tense line of his shoulder is more contact than Charles trusts himself with; it's only years of practice that keep his telepathic voice steady. Seeing whatever's in Erik's head – Charles swallows and looks before he can finish that thought.

His face stares back at him from the blur of Erik's short-term memory, shockingly sharp-edged where the surroundings are soft. It's his face twice over, a smaller inset of his last childhood picture and, larger, the photo he'd taken at the mutant services caseworker's insistence. (She'd been a mutant, a pyrokinetic, otherwise Charles never would have agreed.) His own eyes stare back at him, over-saturated blue and very wide, from under the tumble of his hair. There's a stain on his collar, a shirt he still has hidden away in the backpack that's lived in Erik's coat closet. He thinks about grabbing it, running far away.

Headline under it: MISSING XAVIER HEIR... FOUND?!?!?! The headline screams its question at him, made bitter by Erik reading it silently. _Missing 7 years, is this 'Charlie'?_ Another, circular inset: his mother, clinging to Kurt's arm, sobbing into a microphone yet somehow not smudging her mascara.

"You can read the article if you want," Erik says. Anger is building, kept under the pressure of Erik's restraint. Charles withdraws his mental fingers before Erik explodes under them. "But it's shit – unsubstantiated gossip, recapping your original disappearance, bullshit speculation, you name it. Nothing useful and nothing true." The knife drives viciously through a clove of garlic, over and over, finley mincing it. "What it _does_ mean, regardless, is we'll have to figure out what to do – _you'll_ have to figure out what to do – sooner, rather than later."

What he _wants_ to do is something he can't let himself do: disappear again. His second choice, Charles thinks as he tries not to will himself invisible, is to go back a handful of weeks ago. To yesterday, when everything was simpler. He could sit here, in what he's come perilously close to thinking of as _his_ place, and watch Erik cook, listen to him complain about the idiots populating his day and answering Erik's own questions in turn. They would eat at the kitchen bar, maybe a glass of wine or beer to go with it, and then Charles would curl up with Erik's laptop while Erik watched the news and complained about _that_ , a steady flow of annoyance that, improbably, comforts him.

This isn't his home. He doesn't belong here. Maybe he doesn't belong _anywhere_ , really, but he definitely doesn't belong here, and he shouldn't let himself forget that.

Somehow, Charles had thought that giving in, bringing himself back to live like a real person, would make things _easier_. Maybe it would be, if he were a normal person – but then, if he were a normal person, he wouldn't have run away to begin with. It's true that it's a relief not to obsess about his next meal, or shelter, or any of the countless constant worries and petty crimes that have made up his life for so long, but... People. People are so difficult.

He knew, logically, even from the beginning, that it couldn't just be Erik and Moira. If he was going to be a real person again, with a real identity, he'd have to bring the whole complicated machinery of bureaucracy into it. The counselor was just the first. The lawyers were the worst, especially since he's technically borrowing the money to pay them from Erik and Moira, something that fills him with no small amount of shame. But of course he doesn't have any money available to him, not yet. The whole reason he _needs_ the lawyers is to get access to his trust fund his father left him, because God knows that no matter how many teary-eyed pictures they might pose for, Kurt and Mother won't give it up to him without a fight.

It was really only a matter of time before the press got involved, too, and only a matter of time before someone got greedy or slipped up. Maybe Charles should be surprised that it took this long.

 _They don't know where I am_ , Charles says, a statement rather than a question. He's certain of it. If that detail had been leaked, Erik's rage wouldn't be nearly as contained as it still is.

Erik shakes his head. The pieces of vegetables on the cutting board aren't as fine or uniform as they usually are, but the knife makes a loud and satisfying thump every time it strikes. Charles has noticed it before, how the use of his powers seems to help focus or comfort Erik when he's stressed or upset. "No. No, you don't have to worry about anybody finding you or hounding you in person." _I haven't failed you that far, at least_.

He's not projecting the thought, exactly; Charles can tell he doesn't intend for it to be overhead, though obviously Charles does hear it, anyway. Charles takes a piece of red pepper, chewing on it thoughtfully to cover his confusion. It hadn't occurred to him that Erik would think of it that way. That his anger is so encompassing it covers himself as well.

He ought to say something, Charles thinks wildly, something that would reassure Erik that he doesn't blame him, that he appreciates everything Erik has done, is doing for him. But what would he say? He doesn't know how this works, how to navigate emotions, not when it's a give and take. He knows how to observe, he knows how to erase or manipulate or a million other things, but he's locked in indecision and anxiety right now, unable to offer a single gesture of understanding to the person beside him.

( _Does_ he blame Erik? Would it be fair if he did? No, he thinks. No, to both. That knowledge, at least, he can cling to.) 

_It wasn't anything you did_ , he tries, which earns him a wave of disbelief and more of Erik's anger, although it has no direction, not aimed at Charles, just at the world. Charles sighs. _Erik, look at me._ It's hard to keep himself visible, to not make it a command, harder to face Erik directly when Erik does grant him his attention.

 _Whoever did it_ , Charles continues, _wasn't under your control. If someone failed, of someone decided to make money off this... that's not on you. If it was someone in the social worker's office, we can find that out. If it was someone from my stepfather's staff, we can deal with it._ He sounds more confident than he feels, confident enough that Erik snorts, a flicker of fond annoyance for what he thinks of as Charles being condescending.

 _At least, if it was someone from Kurt's, they might be worrying about their job. Or their lives_. That last hits – nearly literally – too close to home. Charles evades those images with the ease of long practice, its own kind of running away. _And now it's out in the world... they might be scrambling to do damage control._

Erik's shoulders relax a little and he turns back to assembling the peppers and garlic to toss into the pot he's brought over; they sizzle fiercely when they hit the hot oil, their fragrances rich enough that Charles is almost hungry. The pot returns to its burner. "That might be true," Erik says as he slides around Charles to the sink, setting the knife in it with a pointed clatter. "But that damage... if they can repair it, they're going to want to repair it to suit them. Make sure that you're made out as an impostor. They'll bury you in paperwork if they get the chance."

Memories of other cases flit through Erik's head, trials drawn out on suit after suit and motion after motion. In the back of his mind, Erik's also unconsciously counting his bank balance, working out how many more hours he can pay the attorney. Charles blushes hot. _I can talk to the lawyers. If they've got a chance at winning, they might be willing to recoup payment from my trust fund when I get access to it._

"Don't change the subject," Erik growls.

 _It's still the same subject_ , Charles says. Erik's ability seizes the metal edges of the cutting board and hauls it over to dump the lamb into the pot. Steam wafts up. _Erik, I can't... I can't keep taking from you like this. I'm freeloading enough, and if changing things with the attorneys means I can pay you back faster, maybe – maybe things can get back to normal. Maybe we can put all this_ Charles dumps everything he can into _this_ , the trips to the attorneys, the strange unsettled feeling of being half-in, half-out of the world, Erik's slow adjustment to the presence of another person in his life, as he can. _We can put all of this behind us_.

Does he _want_ to? Charles asks himself. Some things – the attorneys, really – he wants to have done and over with. He wants to feel like he belongs somewhere. Yet even though he knows he doesn't belong here, in Erik's apartment, it's the first place he's felt safe and settled, and with the world yawning terribly at him again, threatening to swallow him up, he finds he wants to hold on even more tightly. 

Erik makes a noise, a grunt that Charles can't interpret, and he steps away from Charles and back to the stove at the same instant his mind retreats as well. It's hard not to follow, find out what Erik is thinking when his face is so unreadable, but – _boundaries_ , Charles reminds himself.

He has to learn to see people like they see each other, everyone agrees on that. It's not about restricting his ability, it's about finding a balance between his rights and other people's, and (Erik had insisted) on him being able to function on the same playing field as everyone else, for _his_ benefit, not because he's too frightening to be allowed to go on like he has.

Charles wonders if other people would be able to read what Erik's thinking right now, that way. All Charles can figure out is that he didn't say the right thing to make it better, which is really no surprise at all.

"It'll be a couple minutes, if you want to get dressed," Erik says. He's focused on the pan, where he's tossing the ingredients together with a practiced hand.

Charles looks down at himself, his pale bony legs dangling against the cabinets. He'd forgotten he was still in his boxers, and a faint warmth spreads across his cheeks. _Okay_ , he says, pushing himself off the counter to stand. The kitchen's not big enough that he can walk around Erik very easily; he can feel the heat of Erik's body, his skin, as he carefully makes his way between Erik and the opposite counter.

He _could_ just let himself touch Erik, Charles thinks. He doesn't think Erik would mind. He's touched Erik before, and it was fine. Good, even; without his hand on Erik's arm, holding on tight like Erik might try to escape, he doesn't think he would have been able to make himself walk into some of those offices, that first time. But he hadn't thought about it, then, just done it. If he had thought about it, he would have _overthought_ , and it wouldn't have happened.

His clothes from earlier are still lying where he left them by the end of the couch, and Charles grabs them and makes his way to the bathroom to dress in privacy. The thermostat is in the hallway between the bathroom and Erik's bedroom, and he stops to fix that, too, setting it back to a normal temperature. He notices as he does it that the door to Erik's bedroom is open, just a few inches. Not far enough for Charles to see much except a patch of carpet and a corner of his dresser, but enough to catch his attention.

Charles has only seen Erik's bedroom once, the first day he came to stay, when Erik gave him the tour of the apartment. Erik hasn't forbid it or told him to stay out or anything like that; Charles has left it alone out of some vague notion of delicacy or privacy. It comes into his mind, sometimes, during the day when he can't concentrate on his reading or in the middle of the night when he's stretched out on the couch trying to sleep. He remembers it very clearly, from that single glimpse: the large, metal-framed bed that dominates it, the surprising airiness of the windows and white linen, the closet full of carefully fitted suits and dresser of folded, faded t-shirts and sweats.

He'd turned away quickly when Erik had directed his attention to the bathroom. Even to his unformed sense of decorum, that one glimpse had been more than enough, had bordered on impolite or intrusive, that this space was part of Erik that ought not to be seen. Erik hadn't told him to stay out once he'd gone back to work, but the closed door, the sense of locked iron gates and high walls in Erik's mind, had been enough to tell Charles to stay out. With everything still so new, the world threatening to drop out from under his feet, Charles hadn't tested those boundaries.

Now, the temptation to look in nearly overpowers him. He's tried to think of minds like Erik's bedroom: places he might glimpse but should politely look away from, recognizing the door as a boundary he ought to respect. Erik's mind in particular has that quality to it; _private_ doesn't really begin to touch the kind of person Erik is. Charles itches to open the door and look inside more fully anyway, to see what aspects of Erik's personality fill that space.

Only knowing that Erik keeps a close eye on everything in his surroundings, including Charles, gets Charles to look away and duck into the bathroom. He ignores his reflection and turns to start the shower, hoping maybe Erik's decided to let their failed conversation go, and to give himself some space to get his head in order.

The water pinks his skin almost immediately. He'd spent many summers huddled in the shade, away from a sun that would burn him over and over. Charles scrubs at his face and reaches for the body wash. It's Erik's, or at least the kind he uses since Charles has taken this bathroom over. It had seemed easiest, getting a two-for-one deal at the drugstore than to get something separate. Even telling himself that he'll pay Erik back for _everything_ doesn't make the sting of relying on him now any less sharp.

Steam and trying to scrub the thoughts out of his head can't clear away the fog of worry that clings to him. He _has_ to do something now, maybe go to the tabloids himself, insist that his lawyers press the case and get to court, do whatever they can not to let his mother and Kurt drag this out. Like ripping a bandage off, he might lose some skin and it would hurt, but he'd have his money, a chance at his own life, which is all he's really wanted.

Before the hot water runs out, he finishes and fumbles blindly out of the tub. In the near distance Erik's mind is still sharp with anger, lightning rumbling in stormclouds, looking for something to strike, and Charles doesn't want to be a target. He dresses mechanically, wincing when boxers, jeans, and t-shirt drag across still-damp skin, and maybe slower than he needs to or should, given Erik's abilities are flexing to set the table and turn the burner on the stove down to low.

He creeps out of the bathroom on silent, bare feet and settles himself at the bar. Erik turns around, plates in hand, his mind fixed one moment on setting them out in their usual places before it stops in surprise, his brows creasing in puzzlement as he stares at Charles – no, _through_ him.

 _Erik?_ Charles says, equally confused for a moment, before the obvious explanation occurs to him, and a burst of shame covers him from head to toe. It only takes a millisecond for him to fix it, to adjust the piece of Erik's brain he was using to hide himself. _Sorry, sorry_...

Erik lets out a deep breath and takes a step forward to set down the plates between them. He turns around again to open the fridge and Charles stares at his back, feeling wretched. It was an accident, of course – Charles didn't intend to do anything like that, instincts from his years alone coming to play when he's stressed like this – but Erik already knows that, and it doesn't really matter anyway. Erik doesn't deserve that; he needs to be able to trust Charles, and how can he do that if Charles can't even control himself?

The really terrible irony of it, Charles thinks, is that Erik is the one person Charles really does want to see him as he is. Charles doesn't know what to make of that desire, though, and so he folds it up and tucks it away in a mental pocket, to be retrieved some other time, when he's alone and has the energy to examine it more closely.

Erik closes the door and brings over two bottles of water, before sitting down. Charles takes his own place across the bar from him. They start to eat in silence.

In all the books Charles has read, when people are feeling upset, it ruins their appetite, or makes the food tasteless or boring. He's not sure if that's one of the things that books exaggerate, or if it happens to other people but just not to him. He feels like he's always hungry, more than ever now that the food is always readily available. And, truly, Erik is an excellent cook.

On any other night, Erik would have asked about Charles's day by now, and Charles would be filling him in on his progress, on all the work he's been doing on what he's come to think of as his rehabilitation plan, for his slow introduction into society at large. He imagines it's much the way PT must be, for people who've been in accidents: painful, and much too slow, but with results, eventually.

Charles has been making progress. He _has_.

Erik finishes eating before he does, and collects both their plates before Charles has a chance to protest. He does speak up, though, when Erik reaches the sink and turns on the water.

_I can do that._

"It's fine, Charles."

Irritation blooms, thick in his chest. _No_ , he thinks clearly and emphatically. _It's_ my _job._ He makes his way around the breakfast bar and toward the sink, crowding into Erik's personal space when Erik doesn't back away instantly. _Let me do my job, Erik._

The look Erik gives him reassures him more than it should, testy and annoyed, his thin mouth twisting up at the end in an expression most people would interpret as irritation bordering on anger. To Charles, it says _whatever, fine, have it your way_ , a hybrid of impatience and amusement that Charles has never encountered before. The textures of Erik's mind are endlessly fascinating, and Charles makes himself set the plates in the sink and finish elbowing Erik away before he can think much more about it.

Erik retreats to the living room. A moment later the TV flickers on, the voices and sounds flipping swiftly between a news anchor's sobriety, screams, a laugh track, the cheers of a hockey game, before it settles on the ambient hum of the DVD player. A moment later, Jean-Luc Picard orders someone to make it so, and something tense and anxious loosens in Charles's chest. He turns on the faucet and hopes the rush of water covers his sigh.

Dishes are a ritual, from scraping every last bit of food off them (despite the fact that the dishwasher is perfectly good and this is what it was made for) to loading them in the precise order Erik insists is required to fit in the maximum number of dishes and still get them clean. Rituals are strange things, Charles reflects as he scrubs the thin sheen of oil off the frying pan (which is always, _always_ hand-washed). They comfort, give shape to existence; he'd seen them at work nearly every day, when a businesswoman would toss a penny into a fountain for luck before a board meeting or a nervous young man always took exactly twenty-seven steps to cross the street or kids skipped over cracks in the sidewalk because _you step on a crack, you break your mama's back_. Sometimes they seem empty or pointless, more trouble than they're worth – an out-of-love couple visiting the holiday displays on Fifth Avenue, trudging through the crowds because it was what they did – or they mean everything – an old man and woman Charles had seen every Saturday without fail, buying lox and bagels at a deli a few streets over from the park.

And then... they might provide _too_ much comfort. They encourage sameness, if you hold on to them too tightly. He has rituals already, all of them shaped around Erik like all the rest of him seems to be: he sees Erik off in the mornings before he goes back to sleep, he cleans up a bit of spilled coffee or stray cereal from Erik's breakfast, he waits for Erik and tracks him down the street at the end of the day, he does the dishes. All of those things, insignificant in and of themselves, acquire a meaning that frightens him when he allows himself to think about them together.

 _You're not ready to be out on your own yet_ , he tells himself. He wonders if he'll ever be, now that he knows what it's like to share space with another person who knows he's there. Sometimes he thinks that was the person he would have been, if his life hadn't happened the way it did – someone happy to be around others, with friends, reaching out to touch them, threading their presences through his life.

And Erik's... he doesn't know if Erik's his friend. He doesn't entirely know what Erik is, or what he means.

Charles bites his lip and shuts the dishwasher door. _Erik?_

"Hm?" Erik says, a quiet acknowledgment. Most of his attention is on the TV, on the episode he's seen three – no, Charles corrects himself, _four_ times already. There's something in it that seems to comfort him; not anything particular about the content of the show itself, as far as Charles can tell, but perhaps its familiarity, the rhythms and beats that he already knows, that are controlled and set. Ritual.

One of the differences between Erik and other people, Charles decides, is that even just a fraction of Erik's attention feels like more than other people give when you have their entire concentration. Erik's always aware of what's around him, always more present. Just look at how he noticed Charles so quickly, when nobody else had, for so many years.

(Nobody except for Raven, at least, but Charles still can't think about her for very long, even after all this time. It's been more than five years since he saw her, and even then it was only a few months. The scrawny blue girl who could be anybody and everybody, just as lost and drifting as he was. He'd wanted so badly to take care of her, had thought maybe they could build their own little family – but then she'd disappeared again, not even left a note, and he hadn't really been surprised.)

 _Can I ask you a question?_ Charles says, drifting into the living room. He leans forward against the back of the couch, bracing himself against the sturdy frame and half-watching the TV screen with a thoughtful eye. It makes as little sense to him as it ever does when Erik puts on some sort of fictional show or movie. Even when he was small, before he ever run away, he didn't like them. It's too strange, watching people walk around and do things, and not feel anything at all from them.

A handful of seconds go by before Erik answers. "What kind of a question?"

Charles frowns, looking away from the TV again, down at his hands, knotted together against the brown fabric. _I don't know. Just ... a question._

"Well, if it's a science quiz or some more philosophical abstractions, I'm not exactly in the mood tonight," Erik says. Another unexpected flash of humor and – fondness, maybe? Is Erik fond of him? Is that the right word? – in among the weariness and background anger of Erik's mind.

 _Nothing like that_ , Charles promises. 

"Shoot," Erik says. "Although I might regret this."

 _Shut up_. Charles slides around the side of the couch and settles on the cushion. It seems important to keep looking at the TV, or his hands, anywhere except Erik, even though Erik's concentration feels like having a gun aimed at him. _I wanted to know... I wanted to know if you would tell me, if this gets to be too much._ He sends along a package of images, Charles's presence reshaping the apartment, the trips to the therapist and social worker and attorney, now the tabloid. _I don't want to have to see it and know you're thinking it but not saying anything._

Even without looking at him, he knows Erik's jaw has tightened and he's leaning forward, as if preparing to stand and leave. "I'm not – what the hell ever gave you the idea I wouldn't say anything, if that were the case?"

 _You try to keep some of what you feel from me_ , Charles tells him. Despair creeps in at the edges; they're climbing up the long, twisting path of an argument, and at the end of it is a precipice. _I don't look, I'm learning how to respect privacy, but I need... I need to know that if there's something you need or want from me, you'll tell me. You won't lock it away but expect me to know anyway, or you'll just let it fester._

His therapist, a lower-level psionic, has been, in her clumsy way, trying to show him how to give people their privacy. Like Erik's bedroom door: he's by himself in the apartment most of the day, he could go in any time he wants, but he doesn't. And when Erik's mind has that sense of closing up, turning away, he tries to make himself not look. Sometimes it's impossible; he _has_ to see if there's something to be frightened of. Other times, he doesn't want to know what Erik's thinking.

"Is that what you're really asking?" Erik asks. The words are tight, pressed down and drawn out with anger. "I wouldn't... I wouldn't string you along, Charles, because I wanted to suffer in silence." Charles does have to look at him now; there's a sharpness to his expression that Charles has seen only when Erik's questioning someone, the full force of that attention turned on him. "And the shit with the tabloid... we'll deal with it. I'm angry at _them_ Charles, at the shit situation it's put you in. I'm not angry at you. Fuck."

Charles does his best not to wince, not to fade into himself again. It might not be aimed at him, but neither is a tornado; it doesn't make them less scary. He sends his next thought quickly, almost tripping over the words as they come out. _That's not – I just – I just want you to know that I'm not your responsibility. Just because you've done so much for me, it doesn't mean.. it doesn't mean you're stuck with me forever._

The strumming tension of Erik's mind skips a beat in its rhythm, before beginning again at double speed. "You're not a burden on me."

Erik's voice is low, deadly and quiet, and Charles feels it all at once, Erik's knowledge and teenage memories of being the unwanted, unloved stranger in a home not his own. Erik knows what it's like to not belong anywhere. Charles wonders if that's the reason he started to trust Erik, back in the very beginning, that odd sense of kinship. He could tell that Erik understood what would make a person make the choices Charles made; he's one of the few people now who Charles hasn't witnessed judging him in the back of their minds, subconsciously or not, for not choosing some hypothetical better option.

Charles hugs himself tightly, as if warding himself against a non-existent chill.

"Fuck. Charles. _Look_ at me."

The frustration in Erik's voice matches what Charles is feeling himself. Charles lifts his gaze, from the carpet to the couch and up Erik's body and his rumpled work clothes and up to his frowning face. His brow is furrowed in the same way it always seems to get when he's unhappy, squiggly lines in the middle like a cartoon character.

"Listen to me," Erik says, once he sees that he has Charles's attention. "Have I ever lied to you? Or tried to?"

 _I wasn't saying –_ Charles starts.

"No, shut up," Erik interrupts. He's leaning forward, into the distance separating them on the cushion, though he's not quite invading Charles's space. "I want you here. I like having you here. Do you believe me? Okay. If that changes, then yes, I'll let you know. All right?"

"All right." He makes himself say it out loud; Erik deserves that much, and far more than Charles has been able to give him. The thought of reciprocity is new; the last time he'd thought himself obligated to anyone had been with Raven. "I – I'm sorry."

"Stop apologizing," Erik says crabbily. It's his usual brand of crabby, though, a rough-edged fondness.

He settles back into the couch again, and swift as that, the moment passes. Charles watches Erik fold away his anger and frustration, that swift compartmentalizing he's noticed about him almost from the very first.

Perhaps from the very first after all. That day Charles had sensed him, an electrical storm moving among the tourists and joggers and the collection of people like Charles, a few homeless men and one homeless teenage girl with her pet dog. The moment the storm had crossed from the sidewalk into the park, it had calmed, shedding all its fury –or, as Charles knows now, had simply contained it, locking it away. That had so entranced him he'd looked for the shape that had contained it, and found it belonged to a tall man with reddish-brown hair and tired eyes hidden behind sunglasses, a pack of cigarettes tucked in the back pocket of his trousers. He'd kept a close eye on the man, Erik Lehnsherr, Detective Erik Lehnsherr, gentle pressure on the parts of his brain that allowed him to see and hear and sense everything having to do with Charles and followed along by his side. Despite his own control, he'd kept glancing at Lehnsherr, half-expecting the man to be looking at him anyway.

It's only now, though, that he's realized what it might have cost Erik to be so open with a telepath, when Erik himself is so private. Charles resolves, again, not to look, not to take more than what Erik's already offered him, from a diner breakfast to his couch and the shower, the help with lawyers (the money), everything Charles can't name.

Erik's looking at him again, the explosions on the TV forgotten. He's wearing that faint smirk, the one that provokes Moira to no end, the one that Charles finds himself responding to, more often than not. "You're thinking," Erik says, summoning over the remote control. "You've got that look on your face."

 _I'm always thinking_ , Charles says, blinking at him. Erik's mouth turns up at the corner, the most subtle hint of a smile Charles can imagine. _I have a lot to think about._ He knows the words will just make Erik impatient, Charles circling the issue, so before Erik can show it, he continues, _I'll get in touch with the lawyers again, tomorrow. See if there's anything else we can do._

Erik nods. "Sounds like a good plan."

He's waiting for more, still. Charles sighs, and lets himself fall back against the cushions, tucking his legs in beneath him. _You were the first one who noticed me, after all that time. And then... you kept coming back. I couldn't understand it. I still don't understand it. I'm grateful_ – he very carefully and quietly pushes a bit of emotion out towards Erik, to emphasize this – _but I don't understand it._

He'd been sure that Erik must want something from him; there was no other reason he could imagine. But the weeks had gone by, visit after visit, and no matter how many times Charles searched Erik's head, he hadn't found any of the ulterior motives he was looking for.

"Ah," Erik says. He tilts his head back, biting his lip as he stares up at the ceiling, as if there are words up there for him to study. He lifts one hand to rub the back of his neck. "Would you believe me if I said I don't know? At first maybe it was just curiosity. Knowing there was a mystery there to solve." Charles hears the ironic reflection behind it, how Erik's never been sure if it's a flaw or virtue, not being able to let things go, pursuing them until the end, everything else be damned. "But then," Erik says, and he turns to look back at Charles again with surprisingly gentle eyes, "somehow, you stopped just being a mystery. You turned into a person."

 _Oh_ , Charles says, in the absence of any other words. He smiles at Erik, and even if it's still a bit tentative, it feels like the first proper smile he's had in a long time.

 _You can start your show again_ , he says after a minute. _That's all_.

"I sincerely doubt that," Erik mutters, half under his breath, but he presses play again nonetheless.

The rest of the evening has that gloss of normality atop it, their routine a polish lying over Erik's anger and Charles's confusion. Charles consolidates his position at the other end of the couch, tucking himself under one of Erik's afghans, a tattered but warm thing Charles knows is older than Erik himself. Where it comes from, they don't talk about, but the swell of affection and loss that washes over Erik and into Charles when he straightens the afghan or tucks it more securely around Charles's feet (as he does now), says more than enough.

Erik fetches what he considers dessert for him (fruit) and a square of brownie that Charles had bought for himself – well, bought with Erik's money, while Erik pretended to choose bagels – from the little bakery down the street. The show with explosions wanders into a detective show, which Charles studiously ignores in favor of his book and listening to Erik critique the show's procedure and the astonishing dimness of the detectives.

"Really," Erik grumbles around a mouthful of blood orange, "it was absolutely _obvious_ the secretary had no motive. They could have caught the barista before he'd gotten out of the city if they'd paid more attention to the timeline."

 _I don't understand why you watch these_ , Charles says on cue, although he understands perfectly.

"I can't tell my coworkers about their seriously flawed investigative techniques," Erik says. "At least, not with Moira watching."

 _Is this why you got passed over for captain?_ Charles asks, smiling a little and letting a bit of devilry slip into the question.

"'Passed over?'" Erik echoes with a snort. "I told them that if they even thought about making me captain, I'd pull headquarters down on top of them."

Charles laughs. The sound echoes oddly in his chest, more breath than the laughter he's heard from other people. Erik snorts again and lets the conversation drop, the next step in the dance, and aside from occasionally muttered comments as the case wraps up, stays quiet.

It's comforting enough that Charles doesn't think, much, about the lawyers or the damned tabloid. Flashes of them come to him, like quick cuts of a knife that make his breath go tense and his telepathy ready itself, looking for a threat, but then Erik will shift in place or grumble at the TV and the shock will slide away. Eventually the fear levels out into a kind of determination to see this through, and it leaves him steady enough to brush his teeth and pull his pajamas on, the last quiet steps of the evening before Erik goes to bed and Charles makes up the couch.

There's a vague sense of reluctance around Erik as he says goodnight, though a yawn escapes him even as he's saying it, clasping his hands behind his back and stretching in a way that pulls his still-tucked shirt out of his pants and exposes the skin of his belly. “I'll see you in the morning, Charles,” he says quietly.

 _Good night_ , Charles says.

Erik turns out the light when he reaches the arch to the hallway, but even once it's dark Charles still senses his presence for another moment, standing there, before he disappears down to his room.

Erik's couch is large, and comfortable, and cozy, made up like this. It's a thousand times better than the countless nights Charles spent sleeping outside, his makeshift nests of stolen blankets and sleeping bags. Better, too, than all the beds he slept in those years, when the weather was bad or he was particularly sickly, because the guilt always almost outweighed the comfort then, using his powers to sneak into an apartment whose tenants were away or to convince a hotel he was a paying customer. 

It still might not be his own place, but Charles loves this couch. 

Tonight, though, instead of drifting off easily as he usually does, he lies awake. He may have told Erik earlier that he was always thinking, but it's not true now. Any thought he starts to land on flutters away from him like dandelion spores. 

When Charles sends out a cautious, soft touch towards Erik's mind, he finds it waiting for him, solid and sturdy and bright as ever. Erik is asleep, but his dreams aren't peaceful. Not nightmares, either, but stressful things, leaving Erik tense and on guard even now.

 _Relax_ , Charles wants to say, wants to order, reach in with invisible fingertips to soothe away his troubles. But of course, he doesn't dare. He's a little frightened by even having the urge.

After some amount of time – it might be minutes, or it might be hours, no way to tell in the timeless silence of the dark – Charles rises from the couch, and makes his way carefully towards the hallway.

He stops outside Erik's door. It's ajar, surprisingly; a tiny bit of moonlight makes its way out, illuminating the carpet at Charles's feet. Charles sets his palm flat against the wood and hesitates. Then he takes a deep breath and pushes it in, before taking the difficult step over the threshold.

Charles can see the room perfectly, residual light finding its way in through a curtain that's not quite shut. Erik is on his back, one hand resting over his belly and the other flung up above his head, fingers curled against the wrought iron of his headboard. He's frowning in his sleep.

It's a big bed, and Erik is very self-contained, tucked neatly on one side of the mattress. Charles walks to the opposite side of the bed, pulling back the covers, and crawls in before he can let himself overthink it and paralyze himself with second thoughts. He curls up on his side, facing in towards Erik. 

Now that he's come this far, he's tempted to throw caution to the wind and touch Erik, or just rest his hand on the mattress, close enough to feel Erik's warmth. And that _would_ be folly, even more insane than what he's doing right now. He resists the urge to soothe away the unhappy tension in Erik's dreamstate, and to be sure that Erik sleeps on unaware of the new presence in his bed. Doing that would... he recoils from the mere possibility of it. _That_ would be a betrayal, taking advantage of Erik when he's vulnerable like this.

 _Vulnerable_ is a strange word to apply to Erik Lehnsherr, who is as determined and fixed as the steel-boned towers of the city. But it fits, with his fingers threaded through the bedstead like a child clutching a stuffed animal, the line that furrows his brow, the lips that part around his breath or a sudden, unconscious sigh. Charles bites back a laugh at the sudden urge to watch over Erik, which is both creepy and _wrong_ , considering Erik's the one who's been watching over him, who saved him, and what Erik's getting out of this arrangement, Charles has no idea.

It's not helping out a fellow mutant, although Erik admires his telepathy and takes pleasure in his abilities. It's not some weird, long-suppressed desire to be a father figure, and it's not the satisfaction of being a decent person, because Erik doesn't think of himself as being a father figure or a decent person. (That second one, though... he _is_. Charles is stunned, constantly, by the goodness Erik insists he doesn't have.) Erik says he likes him, which mystifies Charles; Erik doesn't like other people in his space, but he's bent around Charles effortlessly, like molten metal shaping itself around a mold. If he had the courage, Charles could look and find out for himself _why_ Erik likes him, why he's doing this, but Charles isn't that brave. At least, he's not brave enough to risk what they have, whatever it is, just for the sake of finding out.

He settles in, not really expecting to sleep with that odd energy running through him.

But sleep he does. When he wakes up, the room is dark and the world is dark outside the window, but the comforter has been pulled up over him. He'd be alarmed at having slept through someone intruding into his space, perhaps touching him, but he feels warm, and safe, and Erik is asleep next to him.

Charles has shifted in his sleep, toward the center of the bed, to the heat Erik seems to radiate. If he stretched just a little, his fingertips and toes would touch him. Erik's head is turned to him, too, though Charles can't make much of his features now in the dark room. What he _can_ sense is a softness to Erik's mind that was absent earlier; whatever he's dreaming now, it's something simple and benign. 

_Good_ , Charles thinks fiercely. _Good._

Maybe it's not because Charles is here – it could just be coincidence – but maybe it _is_. Maybe he did something to help, to give back to Erik even a fraction of what he's given to Charles. He hopes so.

He should do more for Erik, Charles decides. Not just as way of paying him back (he's not sure, really, that that's even possible, nor how Erik would respond to the idea), but also because... because Erik deserves to have someone who does nice things for him. Someone who wants the best for him, and shows it. And Charles may not be able to do much right now, but he can at least try, can't he?

Starting now. He lifts himself up on his elbows to squint at the alarm clock on Erik's nightstand. Today's Thursday, which means, in the perfectly planned and organized pattern of Erik's days, it is a morning Erik gets up early to run before work. His alarm should go off in about another half hour.

Charles can't cook, or he could make him some sort of magnificent breakfast. But he knows how to work Erik's coffee machine, at least. It's something. 

He rubs his eyes with his knuckles and sighs, and then he pushes himself off the bed, out of that perfect pocket of quiet and peace, and back into the rest of the apartment with newly-set determination.


	3. Erik

It's a Friday and for once Erik's managed to put a case to rest in time for the weekend. Not put it to rest, exactly; he'll have to wait to see what the district attorney says, and then there's the endless waltz of motions and hearings and attorneys he'll have to dance through to see Kristof Victor Stauffenberg in jail for murdering his ex-wife, and these things always have a way of coming back from the dead. But for now, the case is a lock and to celebrate, Erik stops by the nicer liquor store on his block to pick up his favorite beer and a fifth of whiskey for Charles.

The whiskey is something he'd rarely buy for himself, and not a brand he'd usually consider. But Charles likes it, studiedly sipping it while he's curled up on the couch in jeans and t-shirt with the computer in his lap. He has his aversions – McDonald's and most fast food nauseates him, and he's suspicious of water from water fountains – but the things he likes have made their way onto Erik's shopping list and into the cupboards, from the whiskey to powdered doughnuts to odd cheeses.

Tonight might be Thai food, Erik figures. It's the end of the week, a night to celebrate a case and talk to Charles about how his own week had gone. Another new thing for Erik still, _talking_ to someone after work, but already he likes it, looks forward to it.

He rides the elevator up to his apartment and already he feels, or thinks he feels, the delicate presence hovering at the corner of his awareness that says Charles is tracking him. A quick brush of acknowledgment confirms it before Charles vanishes, leaving an impression of busyness and pleasure at Erik's good mood and the prospect of an evening of takeout. Erik misses that presence a little, but not for long; when he opens the door, he can feel the metal in Charles's jeans in the kitchen and hear the water running.

_Did you have a good day?_ Charles asks, looking up to favor Erik with a smile. He knows, of course, but he's also learning things like polite conversation and giving people the fiction that he hasn't just read their minds. Unlike before, that night when Erik had come home in an entirely different mood, the sense of his telepathy is easy, calm.

Erik sets his computer case down at the table which has become Charles's work desk. The laptop's open, the browser called up to display a page displaying a technical diagram of the mouth, speckled with vowels and symbols. The caption explains: it's a phonetics chart, showing where in the mouth vowels ought to be pronounced. A handwritten list of sentences lies next to the computer, the letters IPA and dotted with accent marks.

"Productive day?" he asks.

_Pretty good_ , Charles says. He comes around the counter and out of the kitchen, holding a vase in his hands, filled up with water and a spattering of red and purple tulips. _I took a long walk today. First the library, like I told you I was going to – you know, I used to spend so much time there. I don't know how I would have survived without it._

"Different, though, now that people can see you, I suppose."

Charles snorts. _Well, yes. But still lovely. And of course now I can actually check books out! Even if it's just borrowing your card._ He sets the vase down on the coffee table, between the couch and the TV. _And then on the way home, I bought these from a man on the street corner. It's nice, to have a reminder of the season. Things growing and renewing and all that._ He shoots Erik a sideways glance, not quite shy. _And I remembered you saying once that these were your favorite._

"They are," Erik agrees. He shrugs off his jacket, and sits down to untie his shoes. "My mother used to grow them, when I was growing up. All sorts of flowers, really, but yeah, I liked those best. They seemed the least pretentious."

_There are pretentious flowers?_ Charles repeats, his inner voice bubbling with amusement. 

"Are you kidding me?" Erik says. " _Most_ flowers are pretentious. And overpriced. I can't stand it." He stands up again to deposit his shoes and jacket in their proper places, the coat hooks and shoe rack just inside the foyer. 

_Sometimes I think you actively look for things to annoy you_ , Charles says.

"Believe me, I don't have to," Erik tells him. Charles has sat down on the couch, watching him with the same curious, interested gaze that Erik's become used to these last several weeks, and Erik makes his way across the room to sit beside him, letting the knowledge of the weekend wash over him again as he does it. "What about that?" Erik continues, nodding back over towards the work desk. "Working more on your speech?"

_Yeah_ , Charles says, nodding. _I think – I'm getting a lot better, I can tell. I still feel like an idiot, sitting there talking to myself, but I can hear the sounds I'm making matching up with the sounds in my head. The charts might be kind of a placebo, but it makes me feel more confident to have something to consult._

Erik can remember the first words he heard Charles say, how strange it was, the scratchy shy whisper of them so different from the rich and easy confidence of his mental conversation. The latter still feels more natural to him, but he likes Charles's voice, too, his fondness for it only growing as he's begun to hear it more and more lately.

"Hmm," he says thoughtfully. "You think you're ready to try a phone call? You could put in our order, if you feel up to it."

_Okay_ , Charles says, a hint of trepidation coloring the word. It really _is_ colored, Charles's nervousness an off-key shade of green, like a nervous stomach. _I guess you want the usual?_

That comes a bit more confidently, along with flickers of _awful spicy basil stir-fry_ , as Charles gets out the battered delivery menu from the drawer dedicated to take-out. Several entries are circled, some in older pen with a few newer circles in marker, tom kha and pad thai, that Charles seems to be addicted to. Charles stares at the menu for a moment, mouthing the names of the dishes quietly, although he could as easily order by number.

Erik wanders off to his bedroom to change, deciding Charles might not prefer an audience. He only partially shuts the door behind him, enough to be aware of the soft sounds of Charles moving around the kitchen, the beep of the phone as Charles takes it off the charger. Silence follows that, and Erik turns his attention to undressing and hanging up his trousers and jacket, tossing the shirt into dry cleaning. Despite trying to distract himself he still senses the electronic hum of the phone waking up, commands firing through metal and the blank spaces of plastic as Charles begins to dial.

His bedroom looks nearly the same way it's looked ever since he moved in, metal bed frame and white sheets and comforter, metal-accented furniture and everything spotless, the bed made neatly. Yet... Erik tries not to stare at one side of the bed, the place where Charles sleeps every now and then. Erik can't find the rhyme or reason to it, but some nights he'll wake up, sensing the peculiar patterns of metal and electricity that make up the impression of Charles his powers give him. Some nights Charles sleeps on top of the covers, as if he'd accidentally fallen asleep before making his escape; others he climbs under them; regardless, when Erik turns to look at him he's always curled in on himself, as if trying to make himself small, or keeping in his body heat.

There aren't many places he can pull out those memories and turn them over. He keeps Charles out of his head at work – he'd imposed rules on himself, and one had been not thinking about Charles while on a case – and he has to push down those memories when he's around Charles, not wanting to spook or anger him. So it's usually in the in-between spaces, going to work or returning from it, that he lets himself call up those moments and everything they call up in him, his anger at what's been done to Charles, at what Charles had to do to survive, and other sensations he has to keep even from himself because they refuse to be understood or categorized.

On the nights when Charles falls asleep on top of the covers, Erik folds one of the blankets over him. He also can't think about what it means that Charles doesn't jump awake, or make sure Erik hadn't seen or sensed him in the first place. That way lies... not danger, precisely, but more than Erik's prepared to deal with.

Erik's not used to doubting his own decisions; once he's put his mind to something, his will rarely flickers. But he has to wonder, sometimes, in these hidden moments, if he did the right thing, taking Charles in, if this is really what's best for him. Or if he did the right thing, but for the wrong reason, somehow. Even if he doesn't know exactly what that reason might be. It _feels_ selfish. All he's sure of is that every time Charles thanks him for it, he feels like a fraud.

And knowing that it's temporary, just until Charles is ready to stand on his own and live his own life...

Well. The list of things he can't think about keeps getting longer. It's lucky, Erik supposes, that he's already so good at compartmentalizing, or he might be driving himself crazy by now.

He pulls on a pair of sweatpants and a t-shirt and heads back.

Charles, done with his phone call, has unpacked the bag from the liquor store. He's sitting at his usual dinner spot, eyes closed as he sips at the golden liquid in his tumbler. There's a look of pleasure on his face that surprises Erik, makes something in his chest light up with a fierce happiness as he almost misses a step at the doorway.

Charles has poured him a beer too, into one of the glass mugs that chills in the freezer. Erik grabs it and leans back against the bar, taking a large swig.

"How do you feel about a game of chess while we wait?" Erik suggests.

Charles opens his eyes and turns to him with a considering glance. _I was actually thinking about asking you a favor_ , Charles says. 

Erik raises his eyebrow in a silent question, and takes another swallow.

"My hair," Charles says out loud, running a hand through as he rolls his eyes. "It's too long." Back in his mental voice, he continues, _I could deal with the social aspects of going out for it, I'm certain of it, but I still... I don't want a stranger touching me._

Erik studies him for a moment. He _likes_ Charles's hair, the thick tangle of it, the way it curls around his ears and down the nape of his neck and past his collar. But it is already toeing the line between casual and out of control. And Erik knows, somehow, how much Charles wants to seem responsible, mature. 

"I'm not exactly a hairdresser," Erik says finally.

_I know_ , Charles says with a small smile, _but you're good with scissors. And – and there's no one else I would want to ask._ Quickly, as if speaking over that last part, he adds, _It's not like I've been getting it professionally done, anyway. I'm sure you'll be an improvement over all the times I hacked at it myself._

"As long as you don't try to sue me for pain and suffering," Erik says, instead of the thousand impossible thoughts crowding up in his throat. Charles trusts him, he knows. Charles would have to trust him, to have come with him in the first place, has kept trusting him in a way that has nothing to do with his telepathy, but the _ways_ Charles trusts him leave him stunned when he thinks about them too closely. "You want to do it now?"

"Sounds good," Charles says, rusty but decisive. "The delivery's going to be a while; I guess everyone else wants Thai tonight."

That's how they end up in the bathroom, all lights on and Charles perched on the edge of the sink with a towel wrapped around his neck and his hair curling in damp ringlets. Erik's parked the laptop next to him, the browser opened to a page on how to cut your own hair if you're stupid enough to try it. Charles doesn't look as Erik extends his power to pick up the scissors, the light slithering over the blades, though he does shiver when Erik hones the edges to cutting sharpness.

Concentrating on grinding the metal to the finest point he can achieve helps Erik not thinking about how Charles had bent over the sink, more of that staggering trust as he lets Erik watch him wash his hair and towel-dry it to tousled, curly dampness. It also means he doesn't have to fully acknowledge Charles watching him with those clear blue eyes of his, still as arresting as they'd been when he'd let Erik see him for the first time.

He can't put off the moment anymore. Cautiously, he traces a finger beneath Charles's jaw, tilting his chin up a little.

"Hold still," he says, and gets a silent flash of amusement in reply.

_This isn't like surgery_ , Charles sends, an evil glint in his eye, and he's visibly biting his lip to keep back his grin, damn him. _I doubt you could make my hair look any more ridiculous than it already is._

"I could always have Emma give me style hints," Erik tells him. Charles blows out a soft breath. "Now be quiet."

_Yes, sir_ , Charles says and projects such absolute sobriety and seriousness that Erik laughs and shakes his head in aggravation.

He decides to follow the line of Charles's hair as best he can, only taking off a bit at a time. It means he has to separate the water-dark locks and that means touching Charles, far more intimate than only running the scissors over him. Charles sits quietly, his breaths soft and warm when Erik can feel them through his shirt, his mind almost drowsy, watching Erik but not concerned as Erik cautiously separates one curl from the rest of them and snips a bit off the end. _No turning back_ , he thinks to Charles, who responds with a wordless hum and still doesn't move.

The second cut is easier, and each successive one after that easier still, though Erik proceeds slowly, carefully. There's a rhythm to it, he decides, the crisp _snip snip_ contrasting with Charles's soft breaths. 

"Next time we could just buzz it all off," Erik suggests. His voice is pitched low, a bare murmur. He doesn't know why. It feels like it would be wrong to speak any louder, in this moment.

Charles smiles in response. His eyes are closed now, dark eyelashes fanning out across the pale skin of his upper cheek. "You might be able to get away with that," he says, just as quietly as Erik, if a little rougher. "I couldn't. I'd look ridiculous. Like... like a baby off to boot camp."

"You don't look that young," Erik informs the small section of bangs he holds taut between two fingers.

It provokes a snort out of Charles; a bad move, since it moves Charles's head, and Erik hisses in disapproval, jerking the scissors away automatically to avoid touching Charles's skin. 

"Careful."

_Sorry_ , Charles says, though he doesn't actually sound as apologetic as Erik feels he should. _Do you really think I look grown-up?_ he continues curiously.

"You might have a young face," Erik acknowledges. The shape of the haircut is starting to take form, which is a relief. If it doesn't look particularly skilled, he thinks at least Charles is right, and it's not going to look any worse, either. "But nobody would think that if they listened to you when you talk. Or if they bothered looking at your eyes."

Charles digests this in silence as Erik continues to cut. _Snip, snip_.

"Turn your head this way," Erik says after a few moments. He places his hand back on Charles's jaw, gentle but firm, to show how he means, though immediately he realizes how unnecessary that is. Charles doesn't seem to mind, though, moving easily with Erik's touch.

There's no tension, no nervousness he can feel under Charles's skin. Charles looks calm, boneless, peaceful, a million things Erik can't believe. He looks like he could drift off to sleep. And Erik can feel it, too, something about the intimacy of the small, close room, something safe and isolated and private.

"Talk to me," Erik says, surprising himself with the words. "Tell me something."

Charles blinks his eyes open. _Like this, or out loud? ___

"Either."

"I was reading earlier," Charles says, "about how telepaths that manifest at birth often speak late. There aren't that many of us, so there's not a lot of data, but it seems suggestive." He pauses, and then says, "Though in my case, there were... were other factors at play. My father," this word comes out sounding more choked than any of the others, "didn't want me to speak aloud. He'd just ignore me."

Only years of keeping control of his abilities in the middle of chaos allow Erik to keep the scissors steady. He breathes through the anger that surges up in him, imagines channeling it, funneling it away to save for later. Part of him wonders why this, why now, before he shuts it up. Charles rarely talks with the social worker; he saves all his confidences for Erik.

"When I was four or so, my mother made him let me start talking." Charles blinks several times, quickly. The scissors snip away, the thin sound of steel against steel filling the silence while Charles composes himself. "She said it wasn't natural. She didn't want to be the mother of a little boy who didn't talk. And she would never acknowledge me if I tried to speak to her telepathically."

"You know what I think of your parents," Erik says as calmly as he can. He trims away a bit of curl at the nape of Charles's neck, watching the skin shiver as his fingertips ghost across it.

"Yeah," Charles says. He swallows, a heavy sound. "It's – neither of them wanted to hear my voice. They never wanted to hear _me_ , if that makes sense."

"It does." Erik evens out one untidy lock. He can imagine that only too well, a boy valued either for his mutation or his ability to pass as baseline. Maybe it's narcissistic, like Moira jokingly says, but he can see himself, another boy forced to choose between becoming himself and becoming someone else in trade for shelter and food. He smooths Charles's hair back from his face, the strands damp-silky under his palm; they'll be soft later, once they've dried fully, and thick and unruly as always. "You've got a voice now, though."

"Yeah," Charles says again.

Positioned as he is, Erik only senses Charles's smile, hints of it wrapping around him. Charles's distress melts away back into something like peacefulness, the memory still there but its ache dulled underneath the truth of the moment, Charles's realization that Erik wants to hear him, however he can. The knowledge passes over like a current, settling and stilling, leaving Charles tranquil again. Erik finishes up, trimming just a bit more off the ill-disciplined tumble that tries to obscure Charles's eyes sometimes, careful to keep his eyes on the scissors and to keep from looking down at Charles, not entirely sure what Charles will see on his face if he does.

Erik clears his throat, letting the scissors float down to rest beside the laptop before he takes a step back. "I think that's as good as it's going to get. Take a look."

Charles swings himself off the edge of the counter and turns. He leans over the sink to study himself more closely in the mirror. Both hands come up to finger-comb through the strands. "What do you think," Charles says, eyeing himself critically, "do I look like long lost Charlie, the boy raised by wolves? A telepath Tarzan?"

Erik leans back against the wall, scowling.

Since that first article, there's been less press than Erik feared, though more than he hoped. A few more pictures of Charles, snapped out and about on his errands, mostly, and variations on the same few facts turned over and over. They'd found the leak in the department fairly quickly, all things considered, the stupidity of idle gossip with civilians rather than anything more malicious. The person responsible's being disciplined severely, though Erik doesn't think it's enough. If the press _were_ worse – if Charles was being hounded or shouted at, anything that threatened to reverse his progress – well, Erik would probably be being disciplined even worse for what he would do. 

Charles reads it all, despite Erik's advice. He's explained to Erik he looks on it as something like an immunization, inoculating himself with the nonsense until it won't ever have an effect on him. It's true that the shock and fear seem to have faded, mostly replaced with a cynical amusement over the inaccurate and romanticized ridiculousness.

Though Erik doubts, somehow, that just because Charles no longer lets the former emotions show, that means they're truly gone.

"Not even a little," Erik says.

Charles smiles faintly, catching Erik's eyes in the mirror. "Prodigal son, maybe? Deserving heir?"

He makes a gesture, encompassing everything from his wet hair down through his baggy t-shirt, twice-cuffed Goodwill jeans (both products of their thrift store runs), and bare feet.

Erik holds his gaze and says, with all the finality he can muster, "You look like _you_. That should be enough for anybody."

Charles closes his eyes and breathes in deeply; Erik can see the way his knuckles go white, tight against the edge of the counter. Maybe Erik should have let him keep it light and joking, but Erik's never been good at that, not when it's something this serious.

Charles opens his eyes again, gracing Erik with a reassuring smile. _The food should be here any minute. Why don't you go wait for it while I clean up in here?_

Erik nods, and slips out the door into the hall, leaving Charles to his own devices for the moment.

Back in the living room, his beer is still on the breakfast bar where he left it. He picks it up and gulps, swallowing down half of the remainder at once, and as he does he allows himself one single second to let his mind go free, to think of the pale curve of Charles's neck bent forward over the sink, the red of his lips carefully shaping Erik's name, the skinny grace of his limbs draped across Erik's bed.

That one moment is all he has. In the next he tucks that picture of Charles away, folding it up and out of reach.

He's used to wanting what he wants, and making no apologies for it; a teenagerhood spent shuttling from family to family, bouncing between fight and detention and fight, has taught him there's no point in disowning what he desires, to have it if he can or acknowledge its impossibility. The mere possibility of _wanting_ Charles – note the emphasis, how it moves from wanting to help to simple, undiluted want – that he shoves down deep and far. What he's felt creeping up on him over the past couple of weeks, something that must have taken root inside him when he'd first woken to see Charles sleeping next to him, or maybe even before that, seeing Charles unguarded, is too dangerous, not just for himself, but for Charles.

_Selfish bastard_ , he thinks to himself before he pushes even that aside.

A few minutes later the food arrives, and soon after that Charles reappears, sniffing appreciatively. He eyes Erik's half-empty glass and makes a comment about not realizing Erik's week had been that bad.

"I've got the day off tomorrow." He says this with more enthusiasm than he usually does.

Charles nods as he beelines past Erik, making for the paper bags with their cartons. _Does that mean you're going to clean the kitchen with a toothbrush?_ he asks. _Reorganize your sock drawer?_

"You're fucking hilarious," Erik says.

They sit down to eat, Charles's good humor suffusing the air like a warm late summer day. His question does linger, though, and Erik meditates on it as he digs into his stir fry. The few days off he's had since Charles's arrive have been devoted – regardless of Charles's snark – to cleaning and errands, and Erik catching up on his sleep. Tomorrow, though, they could go out and do something together, something that wouldn't necessarily be _therapy_ or Charles acclimatizing himself to visible life.

"What do you think?" he says to Charles, who is busy packing away his pad thai with a speed that, as always, seems to belie both his size and his impeccable manners. "Something fun tomorrow?"

_I'd... I'd like that, yes_. Charles looks considering as he swallows his mouthful of noodles. _Although... suddenly I can't think of any ideas for what would be fun_ , he admits.

Erik gives the question some thought himself as he eats. If there are two things that can always be counted on to be a hit with Charles, he figures, it would be food and books. "We can start with breakfast at the diner," he says slowly, "let you stuff yourself with pancakes, and then… hm, this bookstore I know, uptown. You'd love it. It's tiny and tucked-away, dusty and disorganized. There might even be a cat there." It's nothing like the sort of place Erik would normally like, but Moira had dragged him there once, after a lunch together. She had seemed utterly satisfied by the place, claiming it reminded her of a magician's front in some old-fashioned fantasy novel.

_That sounds nice_ , Charles says, smiling widely, and Erik is struck, just as he is every time he sees it, by how it transforms his face. How natural it looks. Like this is how Charles is supposed to have always been, and the way Erik first met him was just some cosmic blunder.

Erik makes the decision that he'll have to argue Charles into buying a whole armful of books tomorrow. It's his half-birthday coming up in a week or two; surely that's a good enough excuse.

He can tell he doesn't keep that thought quite private enough, because Charles's face goes serious. Charles opens his mouth as if to say something, but seems to think better of it. Good; Erik is tired of hearing Charles's apologies and qualms about the money, his promises to pay Erik back. He doesn't think he'd able to hear it tonight without reacting badly, and he doesn't want to ruin this evening with his obnoxious temper and general assholeness.

Charles rolls his eyes. _You're not an asshole_ , he tells Erik.

Erik smiles, the toothy smile that makes his coworkers curse him under their breath. "I have a whole list of people who would beg to differ." More difficult would be finding someone who _didn't_ agree. Even Moira, who's known him the better part of a decade and is the closest thing he's had to a friend in a long time, thinks so, even if she tempers it with a little affection.

Charles lifts his chin pointedly and says aloud, "Then they just don't know you as well as I do."

Instead of answering, because there's no answer that's safe, that won't reveal more than he wants, Erik continues eating. He focuses on the moment, on the mingling spice and the bitter beer on his tongue, the deliberate motions involved in scraping up the last pieces of chicken and vegetables.

Charles retreats into silence himself, though the silence isn't tentative as Erik had half-expected. There's defiance in there, clinging to Charles like an aura and written plainly in the line of his shoulders and that still-stubbornly-set jaw. Erik doesn't need to be a telepath to read it: _Yes, I said it, and I won't take it back. Now what are you going to do about it?_

"Impossible," Erik growls at last. It wins a soft laugh from Charles and a nudge from his bare foot against Erik's ankle.

It _is_ impossible, though. Charles is impossible, even when he's compliant and striving to be the best roommate in New York City. Impossible how he's already worked his way into the fabric of Erik's life and Erik can't imagine going back to his life B.C., Before Charles. Impossible how he _does_ know Erik already, and not in the way telepaths often claim to know people; although Charles is disastrously wrong on some points – Erik's not good, he's definitely not nice, and he definitely _is_ an asshole – he still does know Erik in ways Erik's never thought about being known before. Even Magda, his one and only serious relationship, had confessed he'd stayed a stranger to her, right to the end.

Well, Charles will find out he's wrong sooner or later. Until then, Erik might as well hold on in whatever way he can that won't bring the strange edifice of _Erik-and-Charles_ crashing down on top of them.

Later that night, Erik stretches out alone in bed, turning over the day just gone by and the day waiting for him on the other side of sleep. Charles's presence in the living room is sleep-soft and drowsy, a little blurry from the celebratory whiskey he'd awarded himself for calling out for dinner. Already it's like the white noise, background hum of electricity humming down metal channels, familiar and all-surrounding, and Erik notices it when it's gone. 

Sighing, he turns over, opening one eye onto the dim interior of his room and the slash of light from his cracked-open door. He wonders what leaving his door open means to him, what it means to Charles, if it's an acknowledgment on his part, an invitation that he never offers in words and one that's never talked about. What Charles thinks of it, Erik has no idea beyond the fact of waking up to Charles next to him; but, he thinks with quiet amazement as he turns the possibilities over in his head, it must be something good, or safe, even if they never speak of it and Erik thinks he'll never ask.

Maybe Charles will tell him someday, though, in the same quiet, deliberate way he talked about his parents in the bathroom earlier. The way he shares all of his secrets. Erik has never asked about any of those, either, but he listens whenever Charles decides he wants or needs to share, takes them as a trust that he tucks away in the same corner he keeps all of his own. Charles doesn't talk about his past very often, and never in much detail, but the random odds and ends he's shared have formed a clear enough picture. A kid that only wanted to please and be loved, facing neglect and disinterest on the one hand and a childhood as a lab rat on the other; the guilt at the relief when his father's death ended the latter; his mother's engagement and the dread that what he saw in his future stepfather and stepbrother's minds was even worse. And then his time alone, surviving on his wits, his powers and whatever he could steal, though Charles talks around the latter, in a way that's transparently awkward; as if he's embarrassed, or thinks Erik will judge him somehow. 

He wouldn't. He's impressed by how Charles managed to survive. Not unscathed, it's true, but still strong. Still whole. 

Erik would share his own story, in return, would say to Charles _You are not alone, not in this, not anymore_ , but Charles knows that all, anyway. Charles knew it before he ever made the decision to talk to Erik that first time. 

Maybe, Erik reflects, that's part of the reason Charles chose him in the first place (and that's another thing the stupid news stories get wrong, portraying Erik as some kind of telepath whisperer or snake charmer, luring Charles out of hiding, when in reality it had been Charles, Charles making the decision to take charge of his life and change it). God knows Erik doesn't have a better reason to offer, and Charles has never managed to explain it.

Charles's presence has gone fuzzy and soothing in the way that Erik's come to interpret as Charles having a good dream. 

And, because Erik truly isn't a good person, his first thought isn't _Good_ ; it's _I hope I'm in it._


	4. Charles

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Please note that the rating has increased as of this chapter.

Charles pretends to sleep while Erik strides around the apartment and gets ready for the day. 

Erik senses he's awake, and Charles has to work not to turn Erik's thoughts away from him or tell him gently that, no, Charles really is asleep; that's part of the silent promise Charles has made to himself, and to Erik, not pretending with Erik – and if he's pretending now, well, it's a slightly lesser evil than manipulating Erik's perceptions. And Erik, in turn, leaves him alone, and leaves Charles to mentally follow the trail of early-morning sleepiness that Erik leaves behind him like a track of fog, one that burns away as Erik's resolutions form: more water, a run in the park, coming home to shower, work, Charles.

Charles is already in an awkward enough state as it is; he doesn't want to examine what _Charles_ means too closely. He'd need to pick apart the tangled strands of warmth, exasperation, companionship, pleasure, and get to whatever lies at the heart of what Erik feels when he thinks of the being called _Charles Francis Xavier_. Carefully, Charles hitches over on his side and curls around himself, and tries not to be so obviously tense when Erik pads past him and heads for the door. It's only when Erik's clattering around in the kitchen, collecting his headphones and cell and then shutting the door behind him as he leaves that Charles turns onto his back and stares with wide, stunned eyes up at the ceiling.

Finally, he lets himself scratch his belly, where he'd missed a bit of come in his red-faced and clumsy attempt to clean up last night. He winces as he thinks about getting... _god_ dried come on Erik's sofa; Erik looks red-blooded man enough, and Charles can't imagine Erik's ever lacked for partners, but he can't imagine Erik jacking himself off on his living room sofa. He bites back a giggle, imagining Erik testily laying out absorbent sheets and towels before sex, and instructing someone not to get lube all over the place – and then that picture dissolves, relentlessly, from laughter and precision to Erik pushing Charles back onto the bed, crawling over him, fingers lacing through Charles's to push his hands down into the mattress – 

Between one taut breath and the next, last night's dream rises up and wraps around him. Charles's lungs fill with warm air that tastes like Erik, electricity runs under his skin, as if it's anxious to chase after where Erik's hands travel down his chest and belly and hips. He arches up, begging in a soft and strangled voice that doesn't even sound like him for Erik to please, _please_ do something. And because this is his dream, and in this dream Erik is compliant, Erik presses a kiss to Charles's thigh and then bends to take Charles's cock in his mouth.

Charles can feel the heat rising up in his face, arousal and embarrassment and this mix of emotions that makes his body quiver. He's getting hard again, reliving the images. It had felt so real – still feels so real. Erik's mouth, wet and hot and unyielding, pulling all that pleasure out of him, and Erik's mind, too, dizzying with how open it was, inviting him in to see how much Erik wanted him. He reaches down, just under the waistband of his pajamas to poke at the skin of his hip, and he's almost surprised when it feels normal. In the dream, Erik's hands were, are, holding him down, gripping him so tight there should be bruises.

Charles rolls over on the couch, burying his face into his pillow with a groan. 

It's not like he's never had wet dreams before. He certainly masturbates his fair share. But his fantasies have never been specific, not really. It's never been _personal_. Body parts, hands and mouth and skin, and physical sensations, chasing after pleasure in the idea of warmth and slickness and friction. 

This dream is about as far gone as he can imagine from the nameless, faceless partners he's used to jerking off to. This is... specific. Vivid. Even the setting – not just some imaginary place, but Erik's very real bed, the same bed that Charles has slept in plenty of times now.

It wasn't just the pleasure of it that got him off, Charles knows. Knowing _Erik_ was doing it – that tipped him over.

Charles forces himself off the couch with a Herculean amount of effort. Erik will be back before too much longer, and Charles needs to change the sheets from the washer to the dryer before he's home again. Not that Erik doesn't already know, Charles realizes with a sinking stomach. He must have noticed the machines with his abilities earlier, and what other reason would Charles have for putting on a load of laundry in the middle of the night, if not the obvious?

He pushes down the thought as he moves the sheets, and then unmakes the bed on the couch. He puts on a pot of coffee. He straightens up the living room, the books and few objects lying around unsorted where he's moved them from Erik's proscribed places and not put them back. Erik still isn't home from his run yet, so Charles gets out the vacuum and runs that, too.

It still doesn't feel like enough. 

Granted, there's no polishing or straightening away Erik's suspicions, and there's definitely no escaping the knowledge that he _wants_ Erik.

Charles drops limply back onto the couch.

He might not have any experience of relationships, beyond the few months he and Raven had spent together, but that had been – Charles hesitates over a way to classify it, some odd mixture of alliance and a big brother looking out for a stubborn, rebellious younger sister. Certainly not this, and Charles knows himself well enough, knows others well enough, to know that what he feels for Erik isn't friendship, or isn't friendship alone. That dream isn't gratitude and companionship masquerading as lust, it's honest-to-god real, more visceral than any transient desire Charles has ever felt. He wants Erik, in a way that's both embarrassingly straightforward and too complicated to examine.

_And you can't do anything about it_ , he reminds himself. He should probably get the maudlin stuff over with first. Acting on this means he would put Erik in an impossible position, whether Charles has just scratched the surface of _legal_ or not, and that's assuming Erik would even reciprocate. Erik's got his own morality that Charles is still trying to decipher, but he's pretty sure high up on that list is not fucking (Charles blushes at the thought) the kid he helped rescue.

Still... Erik likes having him around. Charles scowls at the warmth that surges up in him; it's so... mushy and idealized, the kind of warmth he associates with teenaged crushes. Erik doesn't like having other people in his space, but he likes Charles. He lets Charles sleep with him, although Charles hasn't dared to go digging to find out why. It has to mean something.

Erik comes striding through the door and right into Charles's ponderings, a sudden flash of vitality and energy, a buzz of adrenaline and purpose that bursts in like a comet. Charles sits up, flushing guiltily, even though he's done nothing worse than tidy up and start coffee.

"You're awake," Erik says nonchalantly. He rummages in the refrigerator – Charles sees him through the window that looks into the kitchen – and pulls out a water bottle, turns so Charles can see the clean line of his neck tipped back as he drinks.

Erik's hair, usually so neat and contained, is thoroughly mussed from his run, one damp lock flopping out of place on his forehead. When he finishes gulping his water, a few droplets escape from the bottle around his mouth, and he wipes them off casually with the back of his hand.

Charles wonders wildly what kind of kisser Erik is. Charles himself has never been kissed, of course, but he can imagine it. Erik would probably be gentle at first, soft, and then stronger, almost pushy. He would push, press, take, and Charles would give it to him, whatever Erik wants.

Charles wonders what that shiny, sweaty notch of collarbone, the notch that shows right where Erik's T-shirt dips a little in the front, would taste like, if he were to walk over and lick Erik right there. He wonders, if the solid half-wall of the breakfast bar weren't in the way, whether Erik's sweatpants are formfitting enough that he'd be able to make out the outline of Erik's cock.

Fuck, he has to get a hold of himself. This is ridiculous.

Erik is giving him a quietly amused look now, and Charles realizes with renewed embarrassment that he's taken much, much too long to reply to Erik's simple observation.

"I – yes," Charles says. He curls his legs up underneath him on the couch and resists the urge to bite off his own tongue.

Erik's amusement increases, a quiet warmth at the edges of Charles's mind. "Maybe you should go back to bed. I'm not sure you're all there yet."

Charles swallows. "I'm okay."

Erik doesn't pursue it, thankfully, just sets his water bottle back in the fridge and heads to the shower.

Charles follows that amusement and post-run satisfaction to the door of Erik's bedroom, where he stops. It's one thing to crawl into Erik's bed when Erik's already asleep, and another – somehow – to give Erik his privacy as he strips out of his running gear and wanders, clad only in skin and sweat, into his shower. Even _thinking_ about it brings a blush roaring up in his cheeks; Charles isn't shy about sex (he's seen those kinds of thoughts in people's heads; he's not a stranger to them), but he's shy about _this_. Or, not shy, just trying hard to remember boundaries he's not used to.

And he should remember them, really. They keep him safe, keep Erik and his work and his life safe from the ridiculous amount of complication Charles can bring to them, has already brought to them. 

To distract himself, since he's already gone on a cleaning spree, he gets himself ready for the day, climbing into clean clothes and scrounging breakfast for himself. Usually he does this after Erik leaves, so they're not tripping over each other – although Charles likes sharing space, he's found, hovering on the edges of Erik's warmth.

Erik's cell buzzes on the counter while Charles is in the middle of collecting things for oatmeal and fruit. Charles glances at it absently, sees Moira's name pop up on the ID. He thinks of Erik, whose mind is humming with contentment, in the post-run adrenaline haze that, to Charles's mind, tastes almost like afterglow. The phone rings through to voicemail and beeps, and Charles has just decided to ignore it in favor of getting breakfast ready, and coming up with some kind of excuse for his absent-mindedness earlier, when the phone rings again.

Moira.

That's – Charles frowns. Moira's never done this, in his experience, limited as it might be. Anxiety grips him low in his stomach, sending a chill through him. It might be an emergency, even if it's definitely none of Charles's business.

He swipes to accept the call before he can think more about it.

"Moira?"

"Charles, is that you?" 

Moira's voice sounds different, though Charles can't pin down why. Surprise, probably, that Erik isn't the one answering his phone, but something else as well. Charles isn't nearly good enough at identifying emotions without his telepathy to even guess what the edge to her voice might signify, so he doesn't even try. 

"Yes," Charles says. "Erik's still in the shower. I could take a message if you like?"

"I was actually calling about you," Moira says.

"Me?" Charles's chest goes tight, and he hunches over the counter on his forearms. "What is it? Is something wrong?"

"No," Moira says, which is enough to relax him a fraction, at least. If there's anyone in the world besides Erik he trusts, it would be Moira. She wouldn't try to lie to him or trick him. "But it's important, and you should come down to the station with Erik. There's a letter here for you."

"A letter?" Charles repeats. Erik appears in the corner of his eye, entering from the hallway. His hair's still damp, his hands working on the perfect knot of his tie by muscle memory, and he frowns as he sees Charles in the kitchen. Charles swallows and makes himself straighten up, give Erik a reassuring nod – it couldn't be called a smile, probably, but it's something. "What kind of letter?" Charles continues, as Erik comes around to stand next to Charles.

"It's from your mother," Moira says. 

It's possible she continues after that, but Charles can't hear her over the white noise crackling in his head. He hands Erik the phone dumbly and drifts into the living room to sit on the arm of the couch. Erik is talking, firm and definite, in the background, and Charles lets himself take the comfort of clinging to the feel of Erik's familiar agitation.

It's just a letter, Charles reminds himself. It's not as though he's going to see her. It's not as though she still has the power to hurt him, after all those years. Charles can pull himself together. He's strong. He's proven that. 

Erik hangs up the phone and slips it into his pocket. 

"I'm ready to go whenever you are," Charles says, before Erik can say anything first.

"One minute," Erik says. He finishes knotting his tie, dumps the coffee into a travel mug and puts away the oatmeal and fruit that Charles has forgotten about. The fastidiousness eases Charles a little; even with this new specter looming, Erik can take this time to straighten the kitchen and tidy everything away to where it belongs. 

They walk down to the car in silence, and silence accompanies them on the ride to the office. Charles watches the rest of the city stream by, people on their way to work or nowhere in particular, unable to lose himself in their thoughts the way he's always been able to. Not so long ago, when he'd managed to find a warm, safe place to sleep – a house with its owners on vacation, an empty hotel room – he'd let himself wander away from his worries for a time, following the minds of shoppers and businessmen and tourists as they moved through the labyrinth of the city. Now, he's half afraid he'll leave and not come back, or he'll disappear, and for good this time.

Erik glances at him as if he's the one with telepathy, quick looks to make sure Charles doesn't vanish between one breath and the next. Charles can't betray that, not when he's sworn he wouldn't do to Erik what he's done to so many others. 

Still... his _mother_. He's listened to the social worker just enough to know that his mother might be part of him biologically, but she's never been a mother in any real sense of the term. His last memories of her square with that: the perpetually-full cocktail glass in her hand, the fuzziness of alcohol following her everywhere and barely enough to drown out the grief of losing her husband, and the only thing that could cut through that was the mix of fear and disgust when she looked at Charles. _He looks like Brian_ , she would think, a moment before the memory of what he was rose up and she'd turn away with a twitch of her shoulder.

She's not his mother, not in any way that counts. He's grown past her, become his own person. Charles repeats this to himself, hoping he can believe it enough to get through the next few hours.

_What could she want?_ he asks Erik. _Did Moira tell you anything?_

"Not a lot," Erik says. "A man from your mother's lawyer's office showed up with a letter a few minutes ago, and he won't give it up to anyone but you."

Charles takes it, leaning his head back against the cool glass of the window. The police station – that's odd, isn't it? She could have sent it through _Charles's_ lawyers. For that matter, he wouldn't be surprised if she's had investigators after him; it would have been easy enough to find out where Erik lives, and send it directly there. _That_ thought is as sickening as any of it, imagining the taint of her touching the sanctuary of Erik's apartment. If this were going to happen, he supposes this might be the best way. As close to neutral ground as possible.

Moira's waiting for them when they finally make their way in, a hum of anticipation that draws him like a lodestone through the crowd of detectives and beat cops hovering around their desks. Charles can feel the eyes on him, everybody in the room, the loud curiosity of all those minds buzzing in his so loudly it makes him flinch. It would be so much easier to just turn all their attention away, but Charles restrains himself, pushing the temptation as far away as he can. He stands up perfectly straight, tilting his chin up and ignoring everyone but Moira and Erik. 

Erik's hand rests for a moment, firm and solid, at Charles's elbow, and it's enough of a tie to reality to make Charles remember to take in a deep breath and give Moira a thin, strained smile.

"Hello, Moira," Charles says. "Where is he?"

The look on Moira's face is as hard to read as her voice had been on the phone. People will get easier at some point, Charles is sure. Maybe. Now that he's here, he's suddenly impatient: all he wants is to get it over with.

Maybe Moira can read _his_ face, though, because she doesn't bother with pleasantries or greetings, just leads Charles and Erik to her office, where a man's waiting in one of the chairs. He stands up as they enter, his eyes flicking over Charles's form. Charles gives him the same inspection, vaguely amused to see the lawyer is also short, though tucked and pressed into an expensive suit with a leather briefcase tucked under an arm.

"Arnold Stevenson, of Stevenson Rausch Paderborn, general counsel for Sharon Xavier and the Xavier Foundation." He pauses, watery green eyes sliding over Charles again. "And you're Charles Xavier?" The uncertainty in his voice is obvious enough for even Charles to tell, even if the man wasn't practically broadcasting his doubt. 

If he works for Charles's mother, he must have seen pictures of Charles before, so it's hard to imagine what surprises him about seeing Charles in the flesh. Charles glares at him. "Obviously," he bites out. He can feel Erik's considering glance at him, but he ignores it, stepping forward to hold out his hand. "You have something of mine, I understand."

The man hesitates barely a second, and then takes the envelope out from inside his suit jacket and hands it to Charles. Charles holds it tight in his fingers, not looking down at it.

"I'll guide Mr. Stevenson out," Moira says, breaking the silence. "Take all the time you need in here, Charles."

Charles sits down in one of the chairs – almost collapsing, really, as if he's a puppet whose strings have just been cut. He stares down at his mother's curvy, elegant handwriting, still so familiar after all these years. He's struck with the force of the memory: sitting beside her in the garden at Westchester, as she hand-addressed every invitation to her wedding to Kurt. He hadn't understood then why she bothered, a detail no one would notice, for a wedding she didn't care about, clinging blindly to the way things _should_ be done. She'd made him lick every envelope shut, punishing him or maybe punishing herself by keeping him so close by. The taste of glue hadn't faded for hours.

He had already been planning his escape, then.

Erik is standing by the door, hesitating like he almost never does.

"Stay," Charles says. "I'd like you to stay while I read it."

"Okay," Erik says. Moira, who's also stopped by the door, holding it open for Erik, shoots them both an indecipherable look – Charles can't decipher the jumble of thoughts behind that expression, either – and shuts the door. Mr. Stevenson says something, his mind spiking with irritation, but Moira has him well in hand; their presences retreat, rapidly becoming insignificant.

Erik says nothing, although he's burning with impatience and torn between the desire to stay here with Charles and the desire to go out and find Sharon Xavier. Charles warms a little at that, enough to chase away the cold made up of fear and memory. He wonders, sometimes, if things would have been different if he'd had an ally, if Raven had come sooner, if he'd known Erik, if he would have been strong enough to cope with his mother's indifference and Kurt's anger.

He's strong enough _now_ , he reminds himself. He's encountered worse, and survived it, and he can survive whatever's in this letter.

He thumbs open the seal, finger splitting apart the fine, heavy paper of the envelope. The paper inside is the same stationery he remembers sitting on his father's writing desk in a neat stack, the family's X inside a circle at the top. Why it isn't something with her new name – she'd changed it to Marko first thing, as if her marriage to Brian had never happened – Charles can't say. Reminding him, perhaps? _You're still an Xavier_. Or carelessness. 

_Dearest Charles_.

"She's never called me that before," Charles whispers. It's something he'd longed for as a child but had never heard.

_Dearest Charles,_

_When Mr. Donohue phoned us with news that you had been found safe, well, needless to say, I was so very happy. I never stopped looking for you, my darling, even though Kurt and so many others said it was foolish to hope for you to be found. I felt certain you were alive. As a mother, I knew you must still be alive; I would know it if you weren't._

"She can't mean this, can she?" Charles asks. He shows the paper to Erik, who scans the first paragraph. 

Erik says nothing; he doesn't need to.

Charles turns back to the letter, forcing himself to slow down and give careful attention line by line, as though his thoroughness will somehow force the words to make sense.

_I cannot express to you the agony of these past years. Of course I forgive you for it, darling; children are never truly aware of their cruelties, are they? Perhaps only another mother could understand my pain._

Charles sucks in a breath.

_Yet even in the midst of this tragedy, I have kept your welfare close to my heart. Every right that is due to you as my son, and your father's heir, I've worked to keep intact for this day. No one has touched a penny of your trust. And convinced as I am now that you are not another impostor, I will be making arrangements to transfer the money back to you immediately and to see you are placed in control of it._

Charles stares down at the paper. All of this thoughts feel very slow and far away, as if they're somehow underwater. _Worked to keep intact_ , he thinks faintly. That must be code for 'didn't allow Kurt to get his grubby hands on it five seconds after Charles disappeared.'

Charles had realized the first day he met his mother's fiancé that Kurt was marrying her for the money. Kurt's mind had been shouting it – or growling, yes, a loud, threatening snarl. He wonders how long it took his mother to figure it out.

And the impostors…he hadn't heard about them, but of course there would be, with so much publicity and money at stake. He imagines a series of short, dark-haired boys presenting themselves at the mansion with outstretched arms saying how happy they were to see Mum again, the adults who'd gotten them prepared for the scam standing by with tearful eyes. 

Maybe the thing that convinced her this time was real was that he stayed away.

Charles can't help it: he chokes out a noise, a laugh or a sob, he can't even tell, bending forward at the stomach like he's going to throw up.

"Charles." Erik's voice is low, almost a rumble, and Charles can feel his banked anger and his concern and that swirling thing that Charles has never been able to put a name to, has always been much too scared to try. Erik's hand is on his back, stroking softly between his shoulder blades, warm even through Charles's sweater.

"I hate her," Charles manages through a shuddering breath. "I hate her."

Erik is silent, but his hand doesn't stop.

Charles takes a moment to collect himself and to force his breath into something semi-even. It hurts to swallow, but he doesn't want to cry. The emotions in him are purifying, or distilling somehow, boiling away to one refined essence, because the more he thinks about it, the more all he feels is _anger_.

_It's sick_ , he tells Erik. _She thinks – she thinks she's a good mother. How goddamn fucking deluded do you have to_ be?

_Very._ Erik's mind darkens, a vicious memory rushing up like a storm cloud: a man, _Sebastian Shaw_ , smiling down at Erik, patronizing and so completely confident that Erik will agree to go with him, will agree to follow him, that he can't entertain even the remotest possibility that Erik will say no, despite Erik knowing what he'd done, knowing that he'd – 

The memory cuts off, Erik ruthlessly silencing it. Charles looks away guiltily; it doesn't matter how strung out on emotion _he_ is, those memories around Shaw are sacrosanct, not for Charles, not for anyone else. Not long ago, he would have found some use for those memories, exploited them if he had to, but already he wants to wrap Erik up (which should be hilarious, him protecting a man with almost fifteen years on him and four or five inches' height and weapons training), keep those parts of him safe from harm.

He pulls himself back to the moment with an effort; it's easier to think about Erik, he reflects wryly, than to think about himself. About his _mother_. Although he doesn't really need to, he re-reads her letter, absorbing the neat, finishing-school hand and the callousness conveyed by it.

_Yet even in the midst of this tragedy, I have kept your welfare close to my heart. Every right that is due to you as my son, and your father's heir, I've worked to keep intact for this day. No one has touched a penny of your trust. And convinced as I am now that you are not another impostor, I will be making arrangements to transfer the money back to you immediately._

"She doesn't really love me," he whispers. "This is... this is her trying to convince herself she was always a good mother. She didn't even _look_ for me, Erik. Not once."

He'd seen the press conferences, of course, his mother touching tearstained cheeks for the cameras and pleading elegantly for her darling son's return. Kurt would be frowning or issuing demands, the sentimental viewers interpreting it as anger, people who knew better interpreting it as a bit of drama covering up Kurt's plans to get his hands on the Xavier fortune. Charles had watched them reluctantly, his eyes wide with a helpless fascination as he listened to a woman who was already a stranger, before turning away on the first steps of his new life.

He'd walked away, leaving behind her and her indifference, along with all the painful memories of his barely-buried father's science, and the new cruelties he could already see lurking in Kurt and Cain's ugly minds. He walked into the city and disappeared so far no one could find him, and he had _survived_.

And now... now, Charles has a new life, once again. He thought he was free eight years ago, but he wasn't, really. He was a scared child, hiding in the woods.

He's not a child anymore, and he's not scared. He's _free_. 

Let her think what she wants, pat herself on the back with self-righteousness. It doesn't matter. Charles will take the money – _his_ money – and he can cut out whatever lingering shreds he didn't have the surgical precision to find back then, and he won't think of her again. He won't even spare her his anger and hatred. It doesn't matter.

Charles runs his hands across his face. His skin is hot to the touch. His body still feels faraway, like he's not completely contained with his own flesh, but he can tell he's calming down. He's almost stopped shaking.

"Do you want some water?" Erik says.

Charles nods. He's surprised by how aware he is of the sudden absence of Erik's hand on him; as though it had grown so natural as to feel like an extension of himself, taken for granted. He lowers his hands from his face and watches Erik cross Moira's office, stealing one of the unopened bottles of water she keeps at her desk. 

Erik is all efficiency and determination in his movements, and his mind is folded carefully shut – not protecting himself, Charles thinks, so much as trying to give Charles space to concentrate fully on his own emotions, without Erik's intruding.

Charles's chest aches a little watching, and he thinks to himself, almost breathless with the force of it, _If I went missing again, Erik would never stop looking for me._

Erik sits back down beside him and passes him the bottle.

"Thank you," Charles whispers. His voice sounds even raspier than normal, and when he takes a drink he doesn't stop until half of it is gone. When he's done, he says, "You can tell Moira I'm done with her office. I'm ready to go – " _home_ , he stops himself from saying, "back to your apartment."

He'll burn the letter in Erik's sink. He can already imagine how satisfying it will be, the flame curling the edge of that thick paper.

"Okay." Erik's mind flickers out over possibilities, his schedule for the day. Charles follows it, sees what Erik's considering: he has cases going, ones that could possibly wait, but shouldn't, balanced against his desire to make sure Charles is okay. Other desires intrude, half-articulated before Erik silences and pushes them away with the same sharp ruthlessness with which he makes all decisions.

"Wait," Charles says awkwardly. In the silence that gets him, he thinks as fast as he can. It's wrong of him to take up so much of Erik's time and Erik's space, when Erik has so much else to do, other responsibilities and duties that came before Charles and need to come before him in Erik's priorities. And, Charles realizes with a quiet sort of loss, he needs to learn to live without Erik – to live without relying on him. The money waiting for him in his trust means he'll have to re-learn self-sufficiency in a world of accountants and lawyers, but he'll also have _resources_. When he pays Erik back, when he can stand on his own and not be the wild, half-traumatized kid Erik had taken into his home, they might be able to start over on something closer to equal terms.

He needs a handful of seconds to think about this, and one second more to come to a decision. "I have to think all this over," he tells Erik, who leans back a bit. "And I don't want to get in the way of your work. I'll see you when you get home this afternoon, yes?"

_No_ , Erik thinks. For a moment those desires flood back, confused and indecipherable, until Erik shunts them away and, says, "Sure. Call me if you need anything. Do you have your key?"

Charles fishes the keyring out of his backpack, and Erik nods. "I'll see you tonight," Charles says, and adds silently, _I promise. No running._

It feels perilously close to a lie, because sooner or later he'll need to give Erik his space again and stop taking up so much of Erik's life. But, selfishly, he's glad today isn't that day, even if it's coming down the pike.

Speaking of, he catches sight of Moira as he leaves her office. Erik hovers over his shoulder, the barest hesitation, then stalks over to his desk. Moira wanders over, quiet and contained as always, even if her mind is sparking with curiosity and concern.

"I need your help," he tells her quietly. "I'd ask Erik, but I don't. Well." It's not that he doesn't trust Moira, he _does_ , even if it's strange still to trust one person, let alone two, but he finds himself protective of his relationship with Erik. It's unorthodox enough that Moira, worried for him and Erik both, might make a comment, or intervene somehow. "I'm going to start proceedings to get control of my inheritance. When I do, I need to find a place to live, figure out what to do, and I don't want more lawyers, or social workers, doing it for me."

Moira sucks in a breath, covers it with a sip of coffee from the travel mug that perpetually accompanies her. "Okay," she says. "Let me know when you're ready, and I'll do what I can. But I don't know if I'm the kind of person who can give you the best advice on handling millions of dollars."

"I don't need that," Charles says. "I just need... I just need a place, something to do."

"I can do that," Moira says with a smile. She grasps his forearm, a gentle, comradely shake. "When you're ready, give me a call and we'll go over the listings."

"Thank you, Moira," Charles says, giving her one of his true smiles.

He takes the long way back to Erik's apartment. In the early morning sunshine, everything looks different, new with possibility.


	5. Erik

The apartment's empty when Erik gets back from his errands Saturday afternoon, arms loaded up with dry-cleaning, a small bag of groceries, and the day's mail. 

He lets himself in, using his powers as always to navigate the lock and the door behind him. "Charles?" he calls out, but he's already fairly certain Charles isn't there, just by the mental lack of that unnameable something he always feels in Charles's presence. His hunch is confirmed as he sets his burdens down on the table and sees the note left there in Charles's messy wide scribble. 

It's not the first time in the last few weeks since the letter that Erik's arrived only to find Charles out, but that doesn't mean he's used to it yet. He's not sure that it shouldn't be the other way around. He's had years upon years of coming home to an empty apartment, never thinking twice about it. It's having Charles here that's unusual, in the grand scheme of things, and yet he's become used to it so quickly.

Out for lunch with Moira, and then shopping, the note says. Don't make supper, because Charles will be bringing it back with him; his treat.

That's fine, Erik thinks. That's all fine. 

He takes the groceries into the kitchen. It only takes a few minutes to put them all away. Erik grabs a beer from the fridge and heads back into the living room, settling down in his corner of the couch and turning on the TV. The Yankees are playing, which is as good as anything for half-watching. He leans back deep in the cushions, puts his feet up on the coffee table (Charles would mock him for that; he's convinced Erik is a neat freak, instead of just reasonably tidy), and lets himself drift as he keeps half an eye on the game.

Maybe it's a good thing Charles isn't here. It means Erik has some time to himself to think about the things in the way he won't let himself when Charles is around, or when he's working.

There's a lot to think about, these days. Charles is... he's not the boy Erik saw that first day in the park, anymore, that's for sure, that wary, wild creature. Erik doesn't know if it was the letter, or the money coming through, or just time alone, but Charles seems to have turned some kind of corner, grown into himself. Erik had seen that strength and solidity at the very heart of him from the beginning, but Charles wears it more obviously now, so that everyone can see it.

He still doesn't like people touching him, and crowds make him nervous, but he's relatively social – more social than Erik is, anyway, especially with people he knows, like the staff at the station and some of Erik's neighbors. He talks to people, chats with them, jokes and laughs, even fucking _flirts_ (though Erik can't tell to what degree Charles is aware of the last bit, nor does he have any way of ever asking).

Even with the press – and there's more of it now, photographers eager for a piece of him now that his identity is confirmed, mysterious and rich and young and handsome as he is. A few months ago, Erik thinks, Charles would have hidden himself away just to avoid them, but these days he manages to deal with them with little more outward reaction than irritation and rolled eyes, the same as he declines more legitimate media requests for interview with his firm and polite no thank you. (Erik allows himself to imagine, for a moment, Moira getting caught in a photo like that this afternoon, headlines about a older mystery woman; somehow it's not as funny as he would have expected.)

It's all great progress. Very healthy. It's what's best for him, really, and Erik _knows_ that, and that's why it's a little sickening to realize that he's jealous. 

Restless, he gets up and prowls around the kitchen, distractedly chasing down ideas for a snack. What he ends up chasing is, mostly, the ridiculousness of being _jealous_ of Moira, of the horizons Charles is pushing against. If anyone else in his life had confessed to a similar feeling (not that anyone would), he'd stare at them in silent contempt before cracking them over the head with something hard and metallic and painful for being so stupid.

Besides, he tells himself, Charles has so much more to learn, things Erik can't teach him. He collects crackers and cheese, something innocuous to chew on while he chews on his own thoughts. He'll need to learn how to deal with Society, with money and influence. He'll need to go back to school. Erik can imagine him nestled happily in the embrace of academia, finally putting that intellect of his to good use. And that means moving beyond Erik's sofa bed and practicing vowels on Erik's laptop.

_And moreover, you're fucking pathetic_. He returns to his corner of the couch – his corner, the other left vacant, as it always is, for Charles. _You like being alone. You like having a clean apartment._

He does like those things. He's used to them. But he's also, already, frighteningly, used to how Charles has reshaped the space around himself, everything from the inexpert loading of the dishwasher to the paperbacks left out on the coffee table.

Erik eats and moves from the first beer to a second. By the time he's down to the bitter dregs, he feels Charles and the spare key, and a jingle of loose coins, coming down the hallway. He unlocks the door and pulls it open before he can give into the childish urge to make Charles do it himself.

Charles tumbles into the apartment, all hectic brown hair and blushing cheeks, his eyes bright with exertion and enthusiasm. He sends a soft greeting to Erik, a bit more subdued than usual, as he sets a collection of bags, one of them filled with boxes that give off a promising smell, on the table.

"I got dinner," Charles says, and when he gets a look at the name on the bag, Erik whistles. It's not ordinary takeout, that's for sure, from a restaurant run by a Michelin two-star chef slumming it by doing sliders and fancy-cut french fries. "And some clothes, so I don't have to keep stealing yours if the laundry's running low."

Erik carefully pushes back the surge of warmth at the memory of Charles in one of his t-shirts – of Charles the first night he'd stayed with Erik, in Erik's Brooklyn Mutant Center t-shirt and Erik's flannel pants, too long by far and clumsily cuffed so Charles didn't trip over them. 

"And," Charles adds, "I went to the bank and withdrew what I owe you for my share of rent and utilities for the past few months."

Erik can't help his frown, but Charles stops in the midst of unloading the food to give Erik a serious look.

"Don't argue with me about this, Erik," he says, serious and soft. "I know we only discussed the lawyers' bills, but I know how many incidental expenses you've been trying not to think about all this time. The food, the clothes, everything. _Please_ let me do this. Let me give something back to you."

The last thing Erik wants to do is take Charles's money. He _wants_ to fight it, to say no. But Charles's eyes are pleading, and Erik can practically feel the edgy pride radiating off of Charles's slightly-too-tense shoulders, the pride that's a mirror image to Erik's own. It doesn't matter that the check represents only the tiniest fraction of the money Charles commands now; it's the deal they'd made, and Charles's pride depends on following through.

He swallows down his objections and stands up. "I'll get the plates and silverware. You want anything to drink?"

Charles flashes him a brilliant smile. "Just water. Thank you."

Erik briefly considers another beer but rejects the idea, grabbing himself a glass of water to match the one he gets for Charles. He settles into the stool next to Charles, taking a long swallow as Charles casually serves them both.

"You look like you had a good time this afternoon," Erik notes.

Oddly, that seems to make Charles go shy for a moment, his head dipping low and his cheeks flushing, before he straightens up again. "I did. Yes. I know... I know it must seem stupid to you."

Erik stares at him quizzically. "What are you talking about?"

Charles shrugs. "I know how you feel about rich people, about stupid and shallow people spending their money. I don't want you to think I'm like that. That I'm the sort of person who cares so much about _things_. But it does – it feels really good to pick something out, and to be able to just buy it and know it's really mine." Charles lapses into his mental communication as he takes a bite of food. _Not stealing something out of need or convincing someone it's always been with me or even borrowing something. Which makes it sound like I don't appreciate everything you and the others lent me, but you do see?_

"I see," Erik says, and he does. He hadn't intended whatever edge Charles had seen in the original question, but perhaps that's one of the reasons Charles had chosen to go out with Moira, if he thought Erik was going to judge him for it.

Charles watches him for a moment, and then springs out of his chair, letting his fork clatter against the plate as he bends and begins riffling through the remaining bags. After a few seconds, he lets out a pleased breath and stands up again, a piece of pale blue fabric in his arms.

He takes a step toward Erik, leaning in close – a little too close, really, because Erik can smell his cologne, something warm and spicy and unfamiliar. Erik can't help but wonder if Moira helped him pick that out, too; Charles has always smelled like shampoo and body wash before, the same kind Erik got on sale two-for-one when he went shopping at the grocery store.

"Can you feel how soft this is?" Charles says, in a thrilled, hushed tone. Erik blinks as Charles brings the fabric, an arm of a sweater, up to brush against Erik's cheek. "Isn't that lovely? If I want to, I can wear that against my skin every day. And the color, too! I'm not sure I even realized I liked blue best. I never stopped to think about it. It never mattered before."

"It's very nice," Erik says. His voice sounds strained to his own ears.

Charles steps back, turning away from Erik as he refolds the sweater and slips into the bag. "Anyway." Charles clears his throat. "Yes. I had a nice time this afternoon." 

It sounds like a closing of the topic, and Erik doesn't know whether to be relieved or to regret it. He can't help think of being sixteen, moving from one foster home to another with nothing but a trash bag stuffed full of clothing and a few duct-taped cardboard boxes. Charles could bring home a gold-plated toilet seat or bathe in champagne, and Erik thinks he would still understand.

They eat silently, the closing of the topic a close in conversation. The food is delicious and it seems a crime not to appreciate it, but each perfectly-spiced bite reminds Erik that things are different. Moira's always laughed at Erik's dislike of change; as always, Charles was the exception to that, an abrupt, new brightness in Erik's life, but now that brightness has changed. It's not for Erik anymore, and Erik hates it. 

Irritated with himself, he pushes those thoughts to the side and tries to concentrate on dinner. Next to him, Charles is making soft noises of enjoyment, giving off waves of contentment as he eats. Those noises do insidious things to Erik's insides, reminding him of how Charles's mind spreads itself out when he dreams and the dreams are good, hazy impressions of pleasure and satisfaction – and reminding him, inevitably, of Erik's own thoughts in those rare spaces of time, the images that gallop through his mind before he can rein them in and put them away. They're images of Charles and him, and they come back sometimes in Erik's dreams, shockingly visceral, and they leave Erik to shower off his embarrassment in the mornings, or jerk himself off when Charles is busy getting coffee. 

_Celibacy isn't a good look on you_ , Emma would say, her lipsticked mouth curving in amusement. He's had a hard enough time keeping those thoughts from her; unlike Charles, who grants Erik his mental space, Emma has no compulsions about ferreting through his mind if his guard isn't up.

Dinner is done, although Charles promises a surprise once he's done cleaning up. " _Real_ dessert," he says, nodding at a smaller bag with two boxes in it. "Not your sliced fruit and yogurt abominations."

"Fruit is nature's candy," Erik says with all the seriousness he can muster. Charles barks a laugh and rolls his eyes, sends a _you are absolutely no fun_ in Erik's direction, fond and amused enough to make Erik's heart do something treacherous in his chest.

True to form, Charles insists on eating dessert on the couch, promising there will be no crumbs, or at least not many. He pours two fingers of scotch, one for each of them, a ritual Erik can't remember starting but a companion for television or chess or Charles reading another Wikipedia article on his laptop while Erik reads a novel. "No work during dessert," Charles informs him as they take their places and he flicks on the TV, finds a movie they can both agree on.

"See, it's got fruit, so it's practically the same as health food," Charles says. He breaks into his own box, a slice of cheesecake with strawberries, while Erik has an apple pastry, the soft, sweet fruit encased in flaky crust. The butter and cinnamon ooze out, nearly decadent, coating his lips when he takes a bite.

Charles's gaze flickers over him quickly, a moment of intense attention, before he turns to his own dessert and looks back to the movie. Erik ignores the sudden shift in mood as best he can, and like the sweater from before, the conversation – left unspoken, unbegun, between them – dies.

Charles seems more absorbed in the movie tonight than he usually gets. In general, he's okay with documentaries, but he drifts away from fictional programs easily, bored or confused without minds to accompany voices and bodies. Tonight, though, he's focused, frowning at the TV as though if he concentrates hard enough he can unlock its secrets or read the minds of the people on the screen. All the secrets, maybe: human interaction, the continuing confusing question of existence.

Instead, it's Erik who has a hard time giving the movie his full attention. It seems infinitely less interesting, somehow, than Charles's profile and the long column of his neck.

There's nothing good that can come of thoughts like that. Erik puts the empty dessert box on the table, and then he lets himself settle back, hunching down in the cushions, neck pressed against the back of the couch, and he steadies up the walls in his mind, in the very inner private core of himself, and he goes down a list. _Too pale_ , Erik thinks, _he could practically glow in the dark. And his nose is too big for his face. He's short. He's nine-fucking-teen years old, Erik, and for whatever reason, you're the person in this world he's chosen to trust. Get over it._

It figures that even with his own mind, Erik's first response is to argue. But he lets it go, and takes a deep breath, one he can feel go through him all the way down to his toes.

"Are you okay?" Charles says softly. When Erik turns his head, Charles is looking at him, biting his own lip.

"I'm fine," Erik says. He turns up the corner of his mouth for him. "Don't worry about me, Charles."

Charles's mouth opens and closes again. He looks frustrated.

"What?"

"I do," Charles says, too fast. "Worry about you." He shifts in his seat, tucking his knees up underneath himself. His dessert's finished, too, abandoned on the table, but he's holding his Scotch so tightly Erik can see the strain in his knuckles. 

"What?" Erik repeats, blinking. He straightens himself up, turning in so that he's facing Charles directly. "Why?"

"Because!" Charles says. "Because I care about you. I don't know." He takes a sip of liquor, and then a longer one. "I keep worrying Moira is going to say something and you'll find out that way, and you'll be angry that I kept it from you. And that means I should just tell you, but I – don't know how. I can't."

Charles's voice is low and it's difficult to make out all of his words. There's a dim irony in that, maybe, that it's only now that Charles seems to have mastered it with everyone else that Erik is having trouble, when he was always able to understand Charles before. But this is just Charles's spoken voice, not Charles in Erik's head. 

"Tell me what?" Erik asks. He ignores the cold thrill that shivers underneath his heart, the sick and sudden knowledge that whatever he hears next won't be good. Fear makes him angry. " _What_ , Charles?"

Charles blows out a breath. "I didn't just go out with Moira to get her advice on clothes." At any other time, Erik would have said that's fortunate for Charles; Moira's been known to eviscerate (figuratively, nearly literally) any cop, reporter, or politician who suggests she's the _feminine touch_ of the department. "She's been helping me find a new place to live. I don't trust the attorney to do it; he's more loyal to my mother than to me, and I don't trust his promises of confidentiality farther than I can throw him."

He says more, but Erik's fastened on to _new place to live._ Of course Charles is leaving; he can't spend the rest of his life on Erik's couch, after all, even if he does pay rent. That leaving, though, spins swiftly out into a greater distance, Charles slowly receding from Erik's life like a ship moving toward the horizon. He's being ridiculous, Erik knows, and pathetic, and needy, and _greedy_ , and many of the things Moira tells him are pathological and reach back to his boyhood, a series of traumas that left him bereft and furious, and fierce in the few attachments he does allow himself to form. He knows, and he can't stop it, can only hope Charles isn't eavesdropping.

"Moira?" he says lightly. "I would have thought Emma would be more familiar with the kind of places you'd want."

"I don't want those places," Charles says. His tone darkens a little, and Erik _does_ push those bitter, unworthy thoughts back down into the corner of his id. "I don't _need_ them. But even if I did, Moira is my friend."

_And I'm not?_ He can't stop that thought from oozing out like poison. Charles frowns and shakes his head. "You _are_ my friend, Erik, but I've already taken advantage of your generosity – your space and time, not just your money," he adds when Erik thinks of that damned check. "Moira's been driving me around and we've looked at some places. I was going to tell you when I'd signed a lease and gotten furniture and everything. Moira said you'd be angry if I did that, but promised not to tell."

_And she was right_ , Charles adds softly.

It's true. He _is_ angry, angry enough that he can hardly breathe through it, angry enough that he can't look at Charles anymore. He pushes himself up off the couch and, without stopping to think about where he's going, walks into the kitchen. Once he finds himself there, it seems to make sense to pour himself some water, so he does that, too. He sips at it, trying to concentrate on the metal surrounding him: stove and faucet, knives and forks, familiar and unchanging and controllable.

Charles follows him, of course – Erik would have been surprised if he didn't – padding almost silently behind in his sock feet, and pausing in the entrance, blocking it so Erik can't get back out without physically moving him out of the way. Erik doesn't fool himself that he could do it: Charles looks smaller than ever, withdrawn into his body, pale and frowning, but his chin is high and his arms are folded firmly across his chest and all the stubbornness and determination Erik's grown to love these past few months is evident in his eyes.

_Can't you, won't you –_ Charles says, a helplessness to his tone that Erik knows isn't true, no matter how much Charles might think so. _Talk to me, Erik._

"What is there to talk about?" Erik says. "You're leaving."

He's trying to keep the bitterness from his voice. He doubts he's succeeding. He's biting down on other words, worse ones, more thoughts he hopes Charles can't hear but that he can't quite vanquish. _What are you waiting for? You could be out of here tonight._ It would only take a minute to pack up his things; they could get him a hotel suite at any place he might like. Why bother dragging it out any longer?

"You don't understand," Charles says, stepping closer. "I can't keep taking things from you, when I don't have anything to give back."

"I don't want anything from you!" Erik snaps. He's floated one of the knives out of the block on the counter, unable to manage any longer without something physical to channel this burst of emotions into, a frenzied dance of liquid metal forming and reforming in the air beside him. Charles doesn't even glance at the spectacle; his eyes are locked on Erik.

"That's not it," Charles says. He steps forward again, until they're only a few feet apart. Charles has to angle his head up to keep Erik's gaze, and he looks almost angry now, too, the fierceness of his expression almost covering up the plaintiveness. "I can't keep letting you take care of me," Charles says, "not when I..."

His voice trails off, and he does let his gaze slip away from Erik's then, looking away and closing his eyes for a moment before continuing silently. 

_I need you to see me as an equal._

"What?" Erik's anger snarls and bristles, wanting to attack but finding itself thwarted. "What the hell is that supposed to mean?"

"Come on, Erik." Charles shakes his head. "If our positions were reversed, if you'd been living on my couch for months, it would drive you crazy. You wouldn't have even _let_ me give you a place to live without paying me back as soon as you could, without showing me you could live without my help."

That's true enough, Erik supposes. The anger resists being placated. _We're not talking about me, we're talking about you._ "Did I ever say you weren't my equal?" Erik asks. "I'm not keeping you like some fucking indentured servant until you pay back your debts."

"It's not that," Charles says. The temper behind those blue eyes is spiking and spilling out, as if Charles's body can't contain it anymore, so it fills the space between them. "It's just, I don't want to feel like I'm another person you have to protect and save. Not when – " Charles breaks off, his indecision coloring the air. "Not when you've done so much for me already."

Erik melds the shredded remains of the knife back together, shapes them into a ball. _Perfectly smooth, a flawless sphere._ He'd taught himself that years ago, a way to control his powers and to make himself focus when all he'd wanted to do was pull buildings down. Polishing the bumps and imperfections distracts him from his anger ( _fear_ , really, _disappointment_ ) enough that he can hear the nuances in Charles's words – and hear that Charles hadn't meant to say that.

"What do you really mean?" Erik asks. "You were going to say something else. Why did you think you were _another person_ to me? Why don't you want me to think of you like that, when you've already made it clear you don't need me?"

Charles sucks in a breath. His arms clutch himself tighter, visibly so; Erik can see the pale spots where his fingernails are digging into his freckled biceps. "I don't need you?" he repeats. "That's what you think? Jesus Christ, Erik, without you… I have an entire _life_ now, and I wouldn't have any of that if it weren't for you."

Erik opens his mouth to dispute this, but Charles doesn't give him a chance, cutting him off with a shake of his head. "No, just shut up a second, okay," Charles says – snaps, really, with a sharpness that Erik's heard from Charles only rarely, and never aimed at him.

Erik bites down on viciously on his own lip and makes himself wait as Charles prepares whatever he's going to say next. It's not easy; all Erik wants to do is yell, reach out, _shake_ it out of Charles if he could. The sphere next to him wobbles distinctly once or twice, but he doubts Charles notices.

"Fine," Charles says, "fine, okay, if this is how you're going to be about it, _fine_ , let's put all our cards on the table, right," and Erik barely has time to process the miserable twist of Charles's mouth before Charles is moving forward, invading Erik's personal space. Surprised, Erik takes a reflexive step backwards, which puts his back against the counter, but Charles follows him, crowding him against it. 

Their bodies aren't touching, but a hint of space remains between them. Charles is staring up at Erik, eyes wide and still determined, still fierce, but there's something fragile in them, too. Erik holds himself very still as Charles raises his hand and sets it on the curve of Erik's jaw. Perhaps he's too shocked to speak.

Charles's hand only stays on his face a moment. Then it sweeps down his neck, over his shoulders, brushing down the long length of his arm, until finally it reaches Erik's own hand and Charles clasps his fingers around Erik's wrist, holding tightly.

Charles is still staring at him silently, and Erik realizes that he's waiting for a response, a reaction from Erik.

He has to clear his throat before he can speak, and even once he does, his voice sounds rough. "You looked."

He's never minded Charles in his head, from the beginning, but there were... levels. This was something Erik thought was locked away, closed doors and shut safes, not right there at the surface for Charles to pick out. It feels like an obscure betrayal; how long has Charles known, how foolish has Erik been?

"I didn't," Charles says quickly. "Erik, I wouldn't. I just...hoped."

Charles sighs, his warm breath coasting across Erik's skin. His fingers are pressed against Erik's pulse point, undeniable, dragging Erik's attention to it with each throb of his own wildly beating heart. _I just hoped_ , Charles repeats, his mouth (his red, red, lovely mouth) twisting ruefully. _I don't even know if hope is the right word for it. And I thought if I'd ever have a chance in hell, I'd have to leave, to show you..._

The thought trails off and dissolves like a wisp of fog in the sun. Charles doesn't dissolve, though, even if Erik's spent half the conversation thinking he'll vanish out of Erik's apartment and his life like the phantom he's been for nearly ten years now. No, Charles is here and present and so very close, warm and still smelling of Erik's detergent under the expensive cologne. Erik's heart rackets in his chest and he thinks that, if Charles were to step back, if Charles were to let go, he'd explode from the tension running underneath his skin.

"You protect everyone," Charles continues softly. He's leaning up into Erik even more, the hand on his wrist loosening so Charles can brace himself against the countertop; he even leans up on his toes, still coming well short of being able to look Erik in the eye. "But I want more than that." _Maybe I'm too greedy_. Charles's telepathic voice sounds nearly dry. _Maybe I have too much and it's foolish to want more, but I can't help it. I want you._

He should stop this, Erik tells himself. There are a thousand reasons – legal, ethical, psychological – he should stop this. As he reaches for them, the reasons run through his fingers, slipping away like Erik's own reason, like every wall he'd put up between himself and the secret, guilty desires he'd been cherishing, the dreams and thoughts of Charles he'd hoarded like stolen treasure.

_You're doing it again_ , Charles reminds him, his mouth thinning in disapproval. He shifts back a little, craning his head to fix Erik with that severe blue gaze, the one that makes Charles look older than he is. _I know why this is a bad idea, god knows I've thought enough about it. But I also know if I had a choice between all my father's money and you, I'd choose you in a heartbeat. Less than a heartbeat. If you said yes._

"I," Erik starts. He has no idea where that sentence should finish, so many directions it could go.

"Do you need time?" Charles asks.

He pushes back, away, going – maybe gone, maybe gone for good if Erik doesn't stop him. Faster than his own thoughts, Erik reaches for a slim, sturdy wrist and grasps it, the way Charles had held his own, and tugs Charles back. Maybe he tugs harder than he should, but he can't care, not with Charles's eyes wide with shock and a flush rising hectic on his cheeks, not with Charles's body sliding abrupt and warm against his.

Erik shakes his head. _I don't_ , he thinks, but does not say, not when Charles's mouth is here, right here, warm and wet and waiting to be kissed.

He leans in slowly, slow enough to give Charles time to object or to pull away if he's not ready – Erik can't quite process that Charles could be ready, that he could want this like Erik does – but Charles doesn't do anything of the kind. Instead, he lets out a small, breathy "oh" and pushes up on his toes, meeting Erik halfway.

_Slow_ , Erik thinks, _gentle_ ; it's Charles's first kiss. Charles's first anything. Half his life he's gone untouched, not even in friendship, not even casually. Half his life he's gone unseen. 

But he's let Erik see him, from the beginning, he's letting Erik _touch_ , and fuck, Erik doesn't want to screw this up.

It's hard to keep the kiss soft or sweet, though, with the way Charles opens up for him so easily. Charles might not have done this before, but there's no uncertainty to him; all Erik can feel from him is hunger and eagerness. 

Erik breaks the kiss, laying his forehead down against Charles's. Charles's eyes are closed, and Erik can see every individual eyelash where they lie against his cheek. The way their bodies are pressed together, he can feel every time Charles's chest contracts, shaky breaths just as heavy as Erik's own.

He can feel, too, the solid length of Charles's erection, pushing hard against Erik's thigh.

"We can take it slow," Erik says softly, because he's fairly certain it's something that needs to be said.

Charles makes a small noise and opens his eyes. Erik's hands have been fists at his sides, unsure where to touch, but Charles reaches out and grabs one of them now, meeting Erik's gaze as he guides the hand where he wants it: first to his waist, and then the sharp edge of his hip, and finally back to cup the luscious curve of his ass.

Erik flexes his hand, tightening his grip on the flesh, and Charles jumps a little, mouth falling open a little as if in surprise. 

_I like that_ , Charles says. _Do it again._

Erik squeezes again, and Charles makes another one of his soft sounds. Erik wants to hear more of them. 

"We can go slow if that's what you want," Charles says, tilting his head down so he's speaking into Erik's shoulder. "But it's not – I don't need that from you." He glances up again, and there's that wry humor Erik's become accustomed to, that curve of a smile and spark to his eyes. _Just because I'm inexperienced doesn't mean I'm innocent, you know. I know things. And I've thought about this a lot._

"Have you?" Erik asks. Those times he'd felt the warm edges of Charles's dreams lapping at him, when he'd felt the washer and dryer running at odd hours – those same times he'd wondered what Charles dreamed of, hoped Charles dreamed of him. He traces Charles's mouth, his lips wet and swollen from kissing. "And what have you thought about?"

_I've thought about this_ , Charles leans up to kiss him again, deeper, fiercer this time, licking into Erik's mouth. He's inexpert, fumbling a little, as if his eagerness has made him outpace himself, but Erik likes it, likes harnessing that hunger and showing Charles how good it can be, taking time to nip at Charles's lips and tease him. _And I've thought about this_ , Charles adds as his hands slide up beneath Erik's untucked shirt. His fingers tremble against Erik's skin, warm, unsteady – _perfect_ as they seek out all the sensitive places of Erik's belly and insinuate themselves in his waistband, brushing so tantalizingly close to his cock.

_And this_ , Charles says, somewhere between breathless and mischievous. He smiles against Erik's mouth and one hand slides awkwardly down into Erik's trousers, fingertips skimming Erik's cock. Erik sucks in a breath – this is better, _so_ much better already than the few fantasies he's allowed himself, or the dreams he can't stop, Charles warm and vibrant against him, touching him so eagerly, his body snug against Erik's so Erik feels him everywhere, all wiry, sturdy muscle and bone and energy.

Erik leans back a little, enough to ask "And what else have you thought about?" before Charles makes an impatient sound and returns to kissing him again. All of Charles is clamoring _more more more, everything_ , and god, there's so much Erik can give him, so much he wants to give; he turns them around so it's Charles pressed against the counter now, Charles whom Erik lifts up so he can sit on the countertop and spread his legs and allow Erik to move between them. They still touch everywhere and this is even better, being bracketed between Charles's thighs, his hands on Charles's hips and Charles's fingers lacing through his hair.

"Take your shirt off," Charles says, and for all that it's practically a whisper there's an assurance to it, an imperiousness and bossiness that Erik's rarely heard from Charles before, but seems immediately natural. 

Erik likes it, a lot. He can see that Charles can tell, too, the way Charles's mouth curls up into a smirk, which – Erik has to kiss it off him, then, there's no choice at all. Charles lets him in, his legs squeezing tight around Erik's waist, but he pulls back after only a few moments. 

"I mean it," he says impatiently, "let me see you, Erik."

Erik sighs. He has to take his hands off of Charles, reaching up to his collar and tugging it over his head. Lucky it's his day off, an old soft tee for errands instead of the nice shirts he would wear to work, because he's in no mood to deal with buttons. 

He tosses it to the side – more cavalier than he'd normally be with his things, but today is a day of exceptions, apparently – and it lands on the edge of the sink. Erik catches sight, in the corner of his eye, of his discarded knife-turned-sphere, now a ragged hunk of metal discarded in the basin.

"Better?" Erik says, raising an eyebrow.

Charles's eyes are wide, but he swallows and nods silently, reaching out again to run his palm down Erik's chest. "You're so..." Charles trails off.

Erik wants to groan, wants to shout, wants to say a million things. Instead, he swallows it down, too, and reaches for the hem of Charles's shirt. "Come on," he says, and together he and Charles manage to get Charles's layers over and off his head.

And then – there's Charles, sitting half-naked and thoroughly kissed in the middle of Erik's kitchen. 

Amazing, Erik thinks. 

There's smooth, pale skin everywhere Erik can see, which Erik would have expected, but – the freckles. The freckles are a nice surprise. Hundreds of them, thousands of them. He wants to map them all, trace them with his tongue and his fingers.

He's interrupted from his staring when Charles wraps his arms around his neck, dragging him back into another kiss. Even better now, skin on skin. Erik lays one hand wide on Charles's back, feeling the knobs of Charles's spine under his palm as he pulls him in tight. He doesn't _need_ to pull, not when Charles is pressing himself close just as desperately, but he can't help it.

_So good_ , Charles whispers fervently in his head. _Oh god, Erik so good, better than I dreamed, please –_ Erik can't quite parse the flurry of _don't stop go leave don't ever ever stop_ , but he knows he won't, not ever, not until Charles wants him to. He won't stop so they can move to the couch; instead, he pulls Charles closer, encouraging him to wrap his legs around Erik's hips and his arms around Erik's neck.

When Charles is steady, cradled safe against Erik's body, and when Erik's got his hands securely – and lasciviously – under Charles's ass, Erik lifts him up. Charles makes a soft, happy sound against Erik's mouth and hitches himself even more eagerly against him, thighs tightening to push himself up, his lovely body rubbing up so enticingly along Erik's, ardent skin and muscle and _perfection_ , Erik thinks hazily as he walks them through the kitchen to the living room. Lowering Charles without letting him go is more awkward than he wants, but he manages it, and Charles's mind glows with satisfaction and filthy images: how strong Erik is, how he can hold Charles down, pin him in place and make him take whatever Erik wants to give him.

"No," Erik whispers, the word a sigh against Charles's lips before he can pull away. "I won't – " He'll hurt Charles eventually, hurt is what he can do effortlessly, but not here, not now.

"I _want_ this," Charles says, stretched out and shamelessly displayed under Erik's body. _This is why I want you to see me as your equal_ , he continues, gazing up at Erik with eyes that are both hot and clear, not fogged in the least by arousal. _So when I tell you what I want, you don't worry you're still somehow taking advantage. Now, where were we?_

With that, he leans up, his spine a graceful arc under Erik's hands, and laces his hands through Erik's hair and kisses him again, kisses him until Erik melts and pushes Charles down into the couch, takes Charles's hands from his hair and pushes them into he cushions. Charles hums happily and flexes, testing Erik's grip, and hums even more happily when Erik doesn't give way. Then, oh god then, he rocks up enough to rub his cock against Erik's, and the pressure is excruciatingly perfect, thinning the rest of Erik's resolve to be slow and easy and gentle. 

He laces his fingers in with Charles's, squeezing even tighter – he would be afraid he was hurting Charles, if Charles wasn't so obviously enjoying it – as he moves against Charles, coaxing out that same pleasure from him, rhythm like a dance that Charles seems to pick up immediately. 

Erik gazes down at Charles's disheveled hair and swollen lips and bright eyes he can't seem to keep open. Charles's skin is flushed, all the way down his face and past his collarbone, and when he turns his head, sucking in uncertain breaths, it exposes the elegant length of his neck. Erik kisses his throat, mouths the sharp line of his jaw, teases the spot behind his ear, and Charles just keeps making his quiet sounds and all Erik can focus on is the steady drum of _please_ and _more_ that keeps chanting in his head. 

"Erik," Charles says shakily. Erik's mouth is on his neck, and he can feel the vibrations through the skin with every word Charles speaks. "Oh, shit, Erik – I'm really close."

The words are enough to spike Erik's arousal, too, almost unbearably high; he thrusts down against Charles even harder. It pulls a loud "Fuck" out of Charles's mouth, echoing through the room (perfectly enunciated, some distant part of Erik's brain notes, all of Charles's phonetic practicing paying off).

Erik wants, suddenly and urgently, more than anything to have his hand on Charles when he comes. As if he needs yet more reassurance, an additional confidence that it's _him_ doing this to Charles, that he's the one Charles wants, the one who can make him feel this way. If it's pathetic, Erik doesn't care any more. 

He lets go of his death grip on Charles to get his hand between their bodies, using his powers to undo the buttons to Charles's fly. He's only barely gotten his fingers beneath the waistband to Charles's boxers, cupping the velvety head of his cock with his palm, when he feels the first pulses of semen as Charles arches beneath him. 

Charles cries out as he comes, a shattered groan that might be Erik's name or a curse or nothing, just vibrating sound in his throat. He spills wet and messy across Erik's hand and his own jeans, even on Erik's shirt. Across skin is best, Erik cupping the thick fluid in his palm, warm and coating his fingers – fingers that Erik licks clean before he kisses the surprise off Charles's face.

"You taste so good, baby," Erik rasps. He wipes his hand on Charles's thigh, which gets him an aggravated moan and the reproving sensation that these were _new_ jeans before Charles registers the words. _Oh god_ follows swiftly after that, and Charles staring with glassy, disbelieving blue eyes up at him as Erik licks his lips. "So good," Erik says and kisses Charles fierce and deep again, relishes the taste of the two of them mingling together and Charles sighing when he registers the difference, bitter salt where there wasn't before.

_What about you?_ Charles asks after Erik's kissed him into a boneless heap on the couch. His hands travel slowly over Erik's body, clumsily landing on shoulder and flank and hip, and Charles's mind eddies lazily against him like the tide slowly coming in. Erik's achingly hard, very nearly undone by the sight and sound and feel and taste and _everything_ of Charles, but he wants to enjoy this, Charles lying wrecked and ruined under him, smelling of sex and satisfaction, sticky, disheveled, and perfect.

Charles smiles, red lips curving with a wickedness Erik fears and loves. _Maybe I want to ruin you too_ , he says, never mind that Erik's already ruined; it's too late for him, has been too late ever since he'd woken up one morning and seen Charles in his bed and wished selfishly Charles were in his arms as well. As Charles leans up to kiss him now, he touches Erik with purpose, each glance of fingers meant to tease Erik higher and higher, until Charles reaches Erik's pants. Erik's breath catches and his heart stutters as Charles eases the pants over the hinge of Erik's hips, down and down until Charles can't reach any further. He repeats the process with Erik's boxer briefs, and pauses when he tugs the elastic over Erik's cock.

_I always knew you were big_ , Charles says in that hot, murmuring, silent voice. He's pinned Erik with those eyes; Erik can't look away, can't do anything but let Charles's voice fill his head. _I'd see you walking around in the mornings, half-hard sometimes, and I'd imagine lying in bed just after you'd fucked me, watching you go to clean up and thinking how I'd just had that huge cock inside of me._

It's not as though Erik hadn't believed Charles when he said he had thought about everything, but knowing is nothing to hearing words like that, seeing the images that immediately fill his own mind.

Erik licks his lips again. "That's – very specific," he manages.

Charles's soft smile widens into a grin. _You were very inspirational. Although not all of my fantasies were so detailed_ , he admits. _Sometimes I'd wake up from dreams that were just flashes of skin and heat and knowing it was you._

And that's another picture to crowd into Erik's overheated imagination: Charles curled up on the couch, touching himself under the covers. On _this_ couch, the same one they're lying on now, the same one where they've sat together evening after evening.

"Here," Charles murmurs, "let me – " He's shifting beneath Erik, pushing up on Erik's shoulders with one hand, and Erik moves back far enough to let him pull himself up to a semi-sitting position, letting his head rest against the arm of the couch. "Here," Charles says again, "if you just – then I can see you properly – yes, good." 

He's got Erik where he wants him, apparently, and Erik's happy enough to be there, kneeling over him and staring down in wonder. Charles is staring, too, but his attention is fixed unwaveringly on Erik's cock. His mouth hangs open a little as he reaches out with one fingertip, tracing a vein down the shaft.

Erik bites his lip against the groan that wants to escape.

_I think I underestimated you_ , Charles says, a trace of ruefulness in his voice, but mostly excitement. His eyes flicker up to meet Erik's. Still keeping eye contact, he brings his hand back to his mouth and licks it – showing off, Erik thinks, all filthy tongue and audible wetness.

"I would never thought you'd be a tease," Erik murmurs.

To his surprise, the words seem to embarrass Charles – the first sign of it since they've started this. Erik regrets it immediately as Charles lowers his gaze, uncertainty creeping back into his posture in a way that's all too familiar. After a moment, though, Charles sighs, wrapping his wet hand around Erik's cock.

_I like it_ , Charles says simply. _I didn't know how good it would feel, like I have this power over you._

Erik laughs brokenly, more like helpless, choking breath than anything. If Charles _had_ looked, he'd have seen that he already had power over Erik, well before they got here – maybe from the moment he'd looked up at Erik in Central Park, maybe before, when he'd been a ghost and Erik had been chasing him. He wants to tell Charles he doesn't need to do this, Erik is already well and truly caught, has been, Charles could ask him anything right now and Erik would do it, shameful as it is to admit.

_I don't want anything_ , Charles sends, although the hot look in his eyes says he wants a lot, wants everything. _I just... I want_ , he admits, and wraps his wet fingers around Erik's cock again. _But only what you want to give me._

There's no answer for that that's safe; even if there were, Erik can't think of it with Charles's fingers wrapped around him. He's spent weeks, months nearly, guiltily jacking off when he'd hoped Charles hadn't been looking, it's not like he's abstained from all kinds of pleasure, but Charles's slick, warm skin wrapped around him, Charles's body stretched beneath him all flushed and marked from Erik's mouth and hands – he won't last long. Already he's thrusting helplessly into the tight clench of Charles's palm, grasping for a handhold on the back of the couch, looking for anything to hold onto.

"Come on," Charles murmurs, and leans up again to kiss Erik's breathless mouth, the pressure around Erik's cock slick and _perfect_ , so perfect. Erik folds himself around Charles, moaning softly as Charles's strong thighs grip his hips so they can rock together, Erik's thrusts pushing Charles down into the cushions, nearly pushing him up the couch except for Erik holding him tight and still. _Come on_ , Charles says again, silently this time, and runs a finger up the underside of Erik's cock and sends him a picture edged with heat and lust, a picture Erik's only dragged out late at night: Charles on his knees between Erik's thighs, red mouth curved around Erik's cock, tongue a sweet pressure under the head as Charles slowly takes Erik in.

"God, fuck, _Charles_ ," Erik gasps against Charles's mouth, and does what Charles wants and comes, hard, spilling across Charles's palm and between their bodies, messy on Charles's belly and his own. Erik shudders and bucks and thrusts a few more times, the pressure agonizing and wonderful, shivers at the sticky warmth on his skin and the last few pulses of his orgasm.

_You got your come all over me_ , Charles says, sounding almost wondering. _So much, my stomach's covered with it._

God, he likes hearing that. Too much, maybe. It makes him feel like a caveman, the way that goes straight to the most unevolved and savage part of his brain. As if he's covered Charles, marked him as his own; as if now everybody will be able to see it on him, just by looking. As if he belongs to Erik now.

He kisses Charles again, softly, almost apologetically, and then he raises to his feet and off the couch slowly, on still-shaky legs. His underwear and jeans are still caught on his thighs; he pulls the boxer-briefs up and kicks the pants off and onto the floor. He runs a hand through his hair as he looks around, at the discarded dessert boxes on the coffee table, Charles's shopping bags spread around in uneven piles. 

_You have everything so orderly and nice, and then I come and rather make a mess of it_. Charles's mental voice sounds thoughtful, and amused, and... familiar. 

Erik can't imagine what it would be like, not to have him in his head anymore. He has to admit that, now. He can't imagine his life without Charles overflowing to fill in every nook and cranny, and he doesn't want to.

Erik looks down at Charles, who is still stretched out on the couch, looking more than a little self-satisfied. His eyes are half-lidded and gleaming, and his smile is small and private.

_The cat that got the canary_ , Erik thinks loudly.

_Or the cream?_ Charles suggests, with a meaningful arch of his eyebrow. 

Erik has to shake his head at the awfulness of the joke. "Come on, then," he says, holding out his hands for Charles to take and then pulling him up to stand beside him. Charles sways a little, balancing himself with his hands on Erik's arms.

"I can't believe I just lost my virginity on that couch," Charles says, in his quiet voice, raspier and scratchier than normal.

Charles's hair – never precisely neat or orderly – is a complete mess, tangled waves like a halo around his face. Erik tucks a lock behind one ear, and the look Charles gives him in return makes something in his chest contract painfully. It's not a heated look, not quite sexual, but it's open wide, everything Charles feels for Erik showing so plainly and clearly on his face that Erik doesn't know how he could ever have missed it. 

He feels so fucking lucky he's dizzy with it.

Erik clears his throat around the lump that's formed. "Next time I'll get you to a bed first," he says, tone lighter than what he's feeling. "This is the only the first stage of your deflowering, you know."

_I'll take that as a promise_ , Charles responds, pressing a kiss to Erik's shoulder. 

Erik is pretty sure he's answering the things Erik hasn't said as well.

_And now_ , Charles says, trying to match Erik's lightness with his own, _you were saying something about a bed?_

He arches against Erik teasingly, leaning up on his toes again so he can kiss the curve of Erik's neck, first at the join of his shoulder, then over his pulse point, just a hint of teeth nipping at his vein. He's all mischief and playing with fire, and Erik decides he'll play as well. He moves swiftly enough that Charles, for all he sees the thought forming in Erik's head, is too slow and clumsy to fend him off, and quick as that Erik has a shoulder under Charles's ribs and an arm around the backs of his thighs and Charles upside down and furious, slung upside-down in a not-quite fireman's carry.

_Erik!_ Charles is furious and laughing. _Unhand me at once._

"Oh, is young sir put out?" Erik slaps Charles's ass and reminds himself of the many, many things he'll have to do with it. Charles struggles ineffectually, but does manage to land a couple of blows on Erik's own ass.

"You'll have to worry about _not_ putting out," Charles says menacingly – as menacing as he can sound, anyway, when breathless with laughter. Erik can't push back the fierce swell of joy that surges up in him, hearing that, thinking this is _his_ , that Charles is. Still laughing, he drops Charles in his bed, such a pretty sight with Charles disheveled and red-faced and pants still undone, freckled skin spread across Erik's sheets.

"Look at you," he mutters as Charles grins up at him and plays with his boxers and the waist of his jeans. Erik helps him, grabs the hems at Charles's ankles and tugs and Charles twists out of his jeans, kicking free of them with a satisfied sigh. _Look at you_ , Erik thinks, greedily drinking in Charles's bare body, his flushed, half-hard cock – oh to be a teenager again – and his strong thighs and trim hips.

Charles watches just as greedily as Erik strips himself, licking those red, swollen lips as Erik pushes his boxers down and steps out of them. "Look at _you_ ," Charles says, twining around Erik when Erik crawls over him, and soon he's tucked warm and close against Erik's chest, kissing him hungry and deep and slow, his mind rippling with eddies of contentment that brush against Erik, warm and lazy, perfect. Softly Erik strokes Charles's temple, his cheek, runs his fingers down Charles's neck and chest and side, not restless, exactly, but wanting to touch Charles everywhere, unable to get enough.

Charles squirms, ticklish, when Erik strokes his fingers too lightly against his ribs; he squirms in an entirely different way when Erik brushes against his nipples. Erik tucks away every new piece of knowledge in the back of his mind. There must be a hundred thousand things to learn about Charles's body; he can't wait to know them all. 

Eventually he rolls onto his back, pulling Charles with him. Charles spreads himself over Erik's body, covering him like a blanket and pressing him down into the mattress with their weight. Charles is heavier than he looks, but not so heavy that Erik can't breathe. Charles lays his chin on the arms he has folded against Erik's chest and stares down at Erik with a soft look in his eye.

"I've never seen you like this," Charles says quietly. "You look so _relaxed_."

"Mmmm," Erik says. He rubs his hands up and down Charles's back, enjoying the sharp jutting bone of his shoulder blades – where his wings would be, if he had them. "I guess you're just good for me."

Charles's mouth twists into an odd smile. "I hope that's true," he says, in a tone that implies that he's not so sure.

Erik pauses the movement of his hands at the small of Charles's back, just above the curve of his ass. "I know it's true," Erik says.

Charles closes his eyes. _I worry._

"About what?" His grip tightens on Charles's bones, squeezing hard enough for Charles to make a small noise of discomfort before Erik forces himself to relax again. "You don't still think you're moving out, do you?"

Charles opens his eyes at that, giving Erik something he can only describe as a dirty look. _I'm going to give you the benefit of the doubt that you didn't mean that to sound so controlling_ , Charles says severely, but it only lasts a moment before his face softens again. _But, no, I just... have you really thought through everything our relationship would mean, for you? The bad things?_

Erik sighs, feeling a little impatient. "Haven't you ever heard the phrase, don't go borrowing trouble?" It was one of his mother's favorites, brought out whenever the child Erik was would start to brood and build terrible futures that might never happen.

"I have," Charles says, matching Erik's sigh with one of his own. "And you've _already_ borrowed trouble, Erik. You let it crash at your apartment for the past few months." When Erik stares flatly at him, Charles continues: "People know I'm alive now. They're _interested_ , there's going to be interest." _And they're definitely going to be interested in the newly-found Xavier scion shacking up with the detective who found him – with the detective who is fifteen years older than he is._

On the far side of Charles's confession, Erik had never once thought about what the rest of the world would think – he's not in the habit of caring about it. "I'm not ashamed, Charles," he says, the conviction pressing up inside him so much more than comes out in his voice. "I don't care what the tabloids or the department or your family's rich society friends think."

"I know you don't care," huffs Charles, "and that's not the point. I think you wouldn't care what they think, but you'd be angry that they think it. You'd hate that they'd get in your way, make it impossible for you to do your work. And you _would_ care about that."

He would, he'd care very much. Already the irritation is crawling hot and itchy under his skin, wanting to metamorphose into anger so he can strike out against the small-minded, limited _baselines_ who would judge or condemn or refuse to understand. He breathes deeply – oddly, a skill learned dealing with Charles – and the annoyance, after swelling, subsides a little.

"I won't be ashamed either." Charles presses his chin into Erik's chest, gazing at him with those maddening and earnest blue eyes. "But I don't want you to resent me, I don't want to risk what we have – I mean, whatever we have, what I want to have – being... tainted, I suppose."

On the list of things Erik fears, resenting Charles is low on the list. He fears a lot more, a lot more acutely – Charles leaving, the city falling apart, the humans trying to reestablish their superiority over mutants, Shaw getting out of prison and doing to others the things he did to Erik and his mother. A handful of photographers and a lecture from Moira aren't really priorities, even if a twinge of uneasiness works up his spine as he imagines Moira's disapproval.

"We'll take it as it comes," he says at last. He splays both hands low on Charles's back to keep him close and tight. "I'm not going to let other people take away something I've wanted." _Something_ , the possessive, jealous part of him whispers, _that's mine._

"You're so maddeningly stubborn," Charles complains, but if he's trying to look disapproving, he can't quite make it stick; the smile that teases his lips is too strong to stay contained for long.

"Well," Erik points out, fairly reasonably, he thinks, "if I wasn't, I never would have found you, right?"

Charles breathes out a gentle laugh. He stretches himself out enough to press his lips to Erik's for a brief second, before laying himself down again to drape across Erik's body, his head resting now against Erik's chest – his ear to Erik's heartbeat, Erik realizes after a moment.

"I'm glad it was you, you know," Charles whispers. His mind is sharing thoughts that Erik can't begin to put words to – images of safety, belonging, things Charles never had and never thought he would find. Things that Erik isn't sure _he_ ever even thought to look for, after his mother was gone, though he doesn't know yet how to share that, either. 

_All right_ , Charles continues silently. _You win. We'll worry about everything else later. For now..._

_For now?_ Erik repeats. He runs his fingers through Charles's soft, thick hair, scritches against his scalp that make Charles push back against his hand like a cat.

_We have this_ , Charles says simply. _I have you._

Erik can't do anything but kiss him again, after that, rolling Charles onto his back again and making him moan, and laugh, both at once, the sound ringing joyfully in Erik's ears.

**Works inspired by this one:**

  * [Cover art for "Plain Sight"](https://archiveofourown.org/works/3381941) by [avictoriangirl](https://archiveofourown.org/users/avictoriangirl/pseuds/avictoriangirl)




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